#and even then themes can shift over time...

[leriexoxo]

The Things We Never Said

Hyunjin x Reader

Tags: 18+ (minors DNI), heavy emotional angst, rejection, heartbreak, sexual content (soft & rough, mirror sex, aftercare, etc.), swearing, crying, pining, miscommunication, Slow burn, angst, friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 9k

Summary: You’d been in love with Hyunjin for years, always stuck somewhere between friendship and almost. When you finally confessed, he rejected you—and then tried to pretend nothing happened. You did your best to move on, even let someone else in… until Hyunjin realized too late that he loved you too. Now he’s at your door in the rain, desperate for a second chance—and you don’t know if your heart is ready to break all over again.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

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You met Hyunjin the summer after high school ended.

He was loud. That was the first thing you noticed. He laughed with his whole chest, talked with his hands, and never seemed to run out of things to say, even when no one was listening. You’d been dragged to a bonfire by your childhood friend, Jiyeon, and suddenly there he was—sitting cross-legged in the grass with his hair tied up and his head tilted back as he tried to balance a beer can on his forehead.

You didn’t say much to him that night. But he noticed you. You knew, because he kept trying to make you laugh.

He succeeded, a little. And then again. And again.

And by the end of the night, when Jiyeon shouted, “We’re getting ramen after this, let’s go!” and you instinctively began to gather your things, Hyunjin turned to you and said, “You’re coming too, right?”

It wasn’t even a question, not really. Just a smile. A light in his voice.

And somehow, without even realizing it, you became part of the group.

He was the kind of person who pulled people in without trying. Messy and ridiculous and disarmingly soft around the edges. He made the quiet ones talk. Made the serious ones laugh. And you—he made you feel like maybe it wasn’t so bad, being seen.

You became friends slowly. Not all at once, not in that immediate, magnetic way some people describe. It was more like… a comfort you grew used to. Like warm socks in winter. Like the sound of the microwave at 2am.

You sat next to him at game nights. He always offered you the last slice of pizza, even when he obviously wanted it. He texted you the dumbest memes at 3am. Brought you coffee without asking what you liked. He just guessed. He was right.

He remembered things you didn’t expect anyone to remember—your cousin’s name, your pet peeves, the exact date you said you were dreading a dentist appointment.

You never let yourself overthink it.

He was like that with everyone.

It didn’t mean anything.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But then came the long drives.

The ones where you sat shotgun, feet on the dash, window cracked open, his playlist humming low between the silence. The ones where he’d ask questions like, “Do you think people always know when they’re falling for someone?” with a weird little smile, and you’d pretend it didn’t send your heart into overdrive.

You didn’t know when it happened. When liking him stopped being a quiet crush and became a permanent ache under your ribs.

But by the time you realized it, it was already too late.

It didn’t happen all at once, but looking back, you could see the moment things started to shift.

It was a Wednesday. Rainy. One of those days where everything felt half-slow and half-noisy, like the world couldn’t decide if it wanted to rest or scream. You had been late to dinner—group dinner, as usual. Everyone had already ordered. Someone had stolen your usual seat.

Without missing a beat, Hyunjin scooted over, patted the bench beside him, and said, “Sit here.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d done something like that. It wasn’t even that significant. But when you sat, when your knee pressed against his, and he didn’t move an inch—you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

His shoulder bumped yours every time he laughed. You felt it in your bones.

And when he leaned down to whisper something only meant for you—something stupid and irrelevant about the waiter’s mustache—you laughed too loudly, too quickly, just to distract yourself from how warm his breath felt against your cheek.

Jiyeon gave you a look. The kind that said oh.

You didn’t want to talk about it.

From then on, everything became sharp-edged.

Every car ride. Every lazy afternoon curled on his couch. Every group hangout that ended with the two of you lingering after everyone else left.

You stopped seeing your friends. You started seeing him.

You memorized the way his fingers looked when he was focused—thumb tucked under his chin, brows drawn. The way he fidgeted when he was nervous, like during that open mic night when his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing. The way he whispered your name when you drifted off during late movies, like it meant more than just waking you up.

You knew it didn’t. Not to him.

But it was starting to mean everything to you.

You tried to tell yourself it would pass.

You tried to flirt with someone else at Jiyeon’s party—a guy who was sweet and cute and definitely into you. But then you caught Hyunjin watching from the kitchen, eyebrows slightly furrowed, his cup clutched too tightly in his hand.

Later that night, when the guy asked for your number, you hesitated.

And Hyunjin—who hadn’t spoken a word about it—offered to walk you home.

You let him. Of course you did.

And as you walked side by side in silence, your jacket tucked beneath his arm like a second thought, you wondered what it would be like to reach over. To grab his hand. To say it out loud, right then.

But you didn’t.

Because you were still scared of the answer.

⸻

The moment came two weeks later.

Another rooftop, another night, another group hangout gone late. Everyone had gone back downstairs. Only you and Hyunjin remained, curled under a blanket, half-drunk, half-exhausted, watching the city blink in soft, slow pulses.

You felt full and empty all at once.

And then he said, “You’ve been quiet lately. Like… inside-your-head quiet.”

You blinked. “Have I?”

He nodded. “Yeah. You do that when something’s eating you.”

You laughed softly. “That obvious, huh?”

“To me, yeah.”

And just like that, the words pushed up your throat like they’d been waiting.

“I like you.”

It came out too fast. Too raw. You didn’t look at him when you said it. You stared at the skyline like it could save you.

He went still beside you.

You felt it. The pause. The absence.

Then—

“…Don’t.”

Silence. Loud silence.

Your heart crumpled in real time.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say it,” he said softly. “Please.”

You turned then. Looked him in the face.

He wasn’t angry. Wasn’t mocking you. Just… heartbroken in a way that made no sense.

“I didn’t want this to change anything,” he whispered.

You laughed once. Just a breath. Just enough to keep from crying.

“Well,” you said. “Too late for that.”

—

You didn’t cry that night.

Not when he reached for your hand and you pulled away.

Not when you stood up too fast and nearly tripped over the blanket.

Not when he said your name like he didn’t know how to say anything else. Like it could still fix it.

You just left.

You went down the stairs and out the door and didn’t stop walking until the city swallowed the rooftop behind you. And when you got home, you showered like you were trying to wash it off. The rooftop, the night, the words. Him.

You climbed into bed in a pair of socks that didn’t match and stared at the ceiling until your eyes stopped burning.

And even then, you didn’t cry.

You just hurt.

You thought maybe he’d give you space.

That he’d let the silence stretch between you until it thinned into distance—polite, painful, but necessary. That was what people did when they didn’t feel the same, wasn’t it? They stepped back. Gave you room to breathe. To grieve.

But Hyunjin didn’t.

The very next morning, he texted you like nothing happened.

hyunjin:

“u up?”

hyunjin:

“wanna get coffee before you go to class?”

hyunjin:

“or not. either way i hope you slept okay.”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you wanted to be dramatic—but because you didn’t know how to be normal around him anymore.

Because nothing felt normal.

That weekend, you saw him again—against your better judgment. Jiyeon had begged you to come to their little movie night, the usual group, just “lowkey and chill.” She’d even promised to make your favorite dumplings.

You told yourself you could handle it.

You were wrong.

He looked up the second you walked in. Said your name with that same soft inflection, like the last three days hadn’t shattered you. Like your confession had been a dream and not a detonation.

You sat on the far end of the couch. He noticed. Didn’t say anything.

Halfway through the movie, he leaned over the armrest and whispered, “You okay?”

You didn’t turn.

You didn’t answer.

You just smiled at the TV screen and hoped no one could see how tightly your hands were clenched in your lap.

⸻

You tried to pull away.

Not just from Hyunjin—but from everything. The group chat, the hangouts, the drop-by visits. You skipped brunches. You started sitting in new spots during class. You made yourself busy with things that didn’t include him.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

But instead of leaving you alone, he chased harder.

He started showing up in ways he never had before. More texts. More “hey, haven’t seen you in a while” messages in the group. Random pictures sent to you privately—funny signs, cats that looked like yours, memes he used to tag you in without asking.

He still made you coffee sometimes. Left it at your door with a note that said nothing more than “You still like oat milk, right?”

It broke you.

Not because he was cruel. But because he was still kind. Because his version of “normal” made it impossible for you to move on.

⸻

Jiyeon called you one night after another canceled invite.

“You okay?”

You paused. Then, “Yeah. Just been tired.”

“You and Hyunjin haven’t talked.”

“I know.”

There was a quiet moment.

Then she said, softly, “You know he thinks everything’s fine, right? That he didn’t break anything.”

You didn’t know how to answer that.

So you didn’t.

—

You made it twelve days.

Twelve days of answering texts with forced emojis.

Twelve days of dodging hangouts, rerouting your walk to class, pretending you weren’t constantly bracing for the next time he’d show up.

You were holding yourself together with duct tape and denial—and Hyunjin kept peeling it off with every well-meaning smile, every gesture that used to feel like comfort and now felt like cruelty.

So when Jiyeon’s birthday rolled around, you told yourself you could survive it.

One night. One dinner. You could smile for a few hours, eat some cake, laugh at a few jokes, and go home.

But then he sat next to you. And that was the beginning of the end.

He didn’t even hesitate.

Walked in with that warm, open energy that had once made you feel safe and now just made your heart twist the wrong way. He saw you across the table, grinned like nothing was wrong, and dropped into the empty seat beside you like it belonged to him.

“Hey,” he said, nudging your shoulder. “You look nice.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You forced a tight smile. “Thanks.”

He tilted his head. “Haven’t seen you all week. You ghosted me again.”

Again.

Like it was a joke. Like it was cute.

You blinked down at your plate. Your heart was pounding. He kept going.

“You still mad at me?” he teased gently. “Come on. I know I’m annoying, but I’m not that bad.”

You laughed. Not because it was funny.

Because something inside you snapped.

You stood up.

He blinked at you, confused, one hand reaching slightly like he thought you might fall. “Wait—”

“I need some air.”

You didn’t look at him as you walked out.

The street was quiet. Cold. A relief.

You leaned against the wall of the restaurant and closed your eyes, willing yourself not to cry. Not here. Not now. Not because of him.

But then the door creaked open behind you, and you knew.

Of course he followed.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Did I… did I do something?”

You turned, finally. Looked him in the face.

And you couldn’t do it anymore.

“I told you I liked you,” you said, voice cracking. “And you rejected me. Which—I get it, okay? That’s fine. You didn’t owe me anything.”

“…I never meant to—”

“But then you kept showing up,” you went on, too fast now, too full. “You kept texting, kept smiling, kept acting like nothing changed. Like it didn’t wreck me to be around you.”

He went still.

“I needed space, Hyunjin. I needed time. But you—you just kept being you. And that made it worse.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he said finally.

“You could’ve let me go.”

The silence between you was unbearable.

You took a step back.

“I’m not mad at you,” you whispered. “But I can’t be your friend right now. I’m sorry.”

And then you left him standing there, under the soft glow of the restaurant lights, with nothing but the echo of your voice and the pieces you hadn’t been able to hold onto anymore.

—

He didn’t text the next day.

Or the one after.

For the first time in weeks, your phone stayed silent—no morning messages, no dumb inside jokes, no pictures of dogs in sunglasses or bad street poetry. You thought it would feel like relief.

It didn’t. It felt like absence.

Like a door finally closing after weeks of creaking on its hinges.

And part of you wanted to pry it open again—just to make sure he was still there. Still existing in the same world, breathing the same air. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

You had meant what you said.

You couldn’t be his friend. Not like this.

The group chat slowed without you.

Or maybe you just stopped checking. Muted it. Let the messages pile up without opening them. Jiyeon texted once or twice—“are you okay?” and “you don’t have to explain, just letting you know I’m here”—but even she understood.

You weren’t ready to talk. Not about it. Not about him.

You weren’t even sure what about him meant anymore.

It had been easier when you were just friends. Easier to joke, to sit close, to share blankets and drinks and late-night walks without wondering if it meant something.

Now you couldn’t look at your favorite coffee shop without remembering how he used to order your drink before you got there.

Couldn’t listen to certain songs without hearing the way he hummed under his breath when he thought you weren’t listening.

Couldn’t step onto the rooftop without your chest tightening like it was still holding the echo of your confession.

⸻

Hyunjin didn’t come looking for you.

Not at first.

You heard from Jiyeon that he was “laying low.” That he’d been quieter, less involved, skipping a few hangouts here and there. He wasn’t himself, she said.

You wanted to tell her neither were you.

But what good would it do?

The damage was already done. And unlike him, you couldn’t keep pretending you hadn’t bled for it.

One week later, you ran into him.

Not dramatically—not on a rainy street or in a dark hallway—but in line at the grocery store, both of you clutching baskets filled with microwave meals and snacks you didn’t need.

You saw him before he saw you.

And for a moment, you thought about leaving your cart and walking out.

But he turned.

He blinked. Paused. Said your name like a question.

“Hey.”

You swallowed. “Hey.”

It was awful.

Awkward in a way that made your skin itch. He reached up and scratched the back of his neck, looked down at your basket like it was easier than looking at your face.

“How’ve you been?” he asked.

You could’ve lied. You should’ve.

But you shrugged. “I’ve been better.”

Something in his face twisted.

“I miss you,” he said quietly. No preamble. No smile.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t trust yourself to.

Because hearing it didn’t fix anything.

It didn’t pull the broken pieces back together or rewrite the moment on the rooftop or un-crack the parts of you that had already started healing from the silence.

All it did was ache.

Even after that quiet moment at the grocery store, even after his eyes followed you all the way to the exit like he still had something left to say. You didn’t reach out.

Because missing you wasn’t the same as wanting you.

And you were done trying to read between lines he wasn’t brave enough to cross.

So, you made yourself move on.

Not out of spite, but out of survival.

You said yes to more invitations, even if it meant sitting in circles he’d never touched. You started spending time with people who didn’t already know your story—or worse, the part where your story had ended.

You met a boy named Minho through your literature elective. He made snide comments about every poem you read in class, and sometimes he offered you half of his protein bar even when you didn’t ask.

He was safe. He didn’t look at you like he remembered every time your heart had cracked open.

He didn’t remind you of anything.

You went for coffee once. Then again. He made you laugh.

It didn’t make your heart race.

But it made the ache dull.

And that was enough.

⸻

Jiyeon noticed the change in you before you did.

“You’re glowing,” she teased one night as the two of you walked home from a dinner that didn’t include Hyunjin for the first time in months.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious,” she grinned. “It’s like… you’re coming back to life a little.”

You smiled softly. You didn’t say it, but you felt it too.

The quiet felt less suffocating.

Your chest didn’t tighten every time you heard his name.

You weren’t happy—not all the way. But you weren’t drowning anymore.

That was something.

You saw Hyunjin again two weeks later. Unplanned. At a gallery opening hosted by a mutual friend.

He was standing by the window with a drink in hand, talking to someone you didn’t recognize.

He looked… different.

Tired, maybe. Older somehow. Like he’d finally started carrying the weight you’d been dragging alone.

You tried not to look at him. Tried harder not to feel anything. But the moment he saw you—really saw you—his whole body shifted.

He excused himself from the conversation and made his way over before you had time to turn.

“Hey.”

You stared at him for a long beat. “Hey.”

“I heard about your reading,” he said, a little breathless. “Jiyeon said you’re submitting that short story to the contest next month.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Thought I’d give it a shot.”

His smile was proud, but his eyes were careful. “That’s… really cool. You always talked about writing more.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Because yeah, you did.

And he used to be the person you shared your rough drafts with.

You sipped your drink.

He hesitated. Then, “Can we talk?”

You blinked. “We are talking.”

“No, I mean… actually talk. About everything. About what I did—or didn’t do. I know I hurt you.”

You exhaled through your nose. “You didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” he said. “But I did anyway.”

He paused.

“I didn’t say what you needed to hear that night. Not because I didn’t care, but because I panicked. I thought if I said it wrong, I’d lose you completely.”

You laughed, bitter. “Newsflash.”

“I know,” he said again. Quiet. “I didn’t know how to be honest with you without breaking something. And then I broke it anyway.”

There was a beat of silence between you.

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

And for the first time, you saw guilt.

Not just regret. Not just nostalgia.

Real guilt. Like he finally understood what it meant to be the one who got to walk away clean.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve let you go when you asked me to. I should’ve respected the space you needed. I thought staying close meant I still mattered to you.”

“You did,” you whispered. “But it hurt too much.”

“I get that now.”

You nodded.

“I’m not asking to fix things,” he added. “Not tonight. Maybe not ever. But I wanted you to know—I see it. Everything I ignored. And I’m sorry.”

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t reach for him, didn’t tell him it was okay.

Because it wasn’t. Not really.

But hearing it? It helped.

—

You kept seeing Minho.

Not often. Not seriously. But enough.

Enough to make people start asking. Enough to let the idea hang in the air—like a question you were never quite ready to answer.

He was calm where Hyunjin had been chaotic.

Confident without being loud.

Sharp-tongued, but thoughtful when it counted.

You didn’t burn for him, not in the way you had for Hyunjin.

But that was the point, wasn’t it?

Minho made it easy to breathe. Easy to exist without constantly trying to guess what came next.

And for a while, that was enough.

You started smiling again. Real ones.

You stopped checking your phone for messages that never came.

Stopped wondering what Hyunjin was doing on a Friday night or who he was laughing with or if he ever thought about the rooftop and the way you’d looked at him like you had something left to lose.

You stopped bleeding, even if you still bruised.

And when Minho asked if you wanted to get dinner—just the two of you this time—you said yes.

Because you wanted to try.

Even if your heart still twitched at the sound of someone else’s name.

⸻

You didn’t mean for Hyunjin to find out about Minho that way.

But the world was small, and the friend group smaller.

He saw you across the quad one day—Minho beside you, walking close, laughing low at something you said. You didn’t notice Hyunjin sitting on the low wall by the fountain, earbuds in but music off, eyes catching on you like a hook in water.

You didn’t see the way he stilled.

Didn’t see the way his jaw clenched when Minho leaned in to adjust the strap of your bag.

Didn’t hear the breath he held until it burned.

But later that night, you got a message.

[10:03 PM] Hyunjin: so it’s real? you and him?

You stared at it for a long time.

Your fingers hovered over the screen. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.

[10:09 PM] You: I’m trying to move on.

No reply came.

Not that night. Not the next day.

But Jiyeon texted you the morning after: Did something happen with Hyunjin? He was weird today. Like really weird.

You didn’t answer.

Because you knew exactly what happened.

—

Hyunjin didn’t understand it.

Not at first.

He thought the ache in his chest was guilt. Maybe even jealousy in the shallow way—like possessiveness, like territorial instinct. The kind of pang you feel when someone you used to be close with starts laughing a little too freely without you.

But it wasn’t that.

It was something deeper. Wilder.

More like grief.

Because you weren’t just someone anymore.

You weren’t even his almost.

You were someone else’s maybe.

And that was what shattered him.

Because when you left, he missed the way you looked at him. Missed your laugh, your stupid overthinking texts, the way you always brought him snacks when he forgot to eat. He missed your presence.

But now—now he missed your possibility.

Now he missed what he never let himself want.

He started spiraling quietly.

He didn’t bring you up. Not to anyone. Not even Jiyeon.

But he was short-tempered, restless. Said no to hangouts, stayed up too late doing nothing, stared at half-written texts he never sent.

He kept seeing you in crowded rooms—never alone, always glowing a little too much beside someone else.

Minho touched you gently. Laughed easily. Didn’t flinch when your arm brushed his.

And Hyunjin hated it.

Because Minho hadn’t hesitated.

Minho didn’t push you away and then regret it after.

Minho got to hold the part of you that Hyunjin threw away out of fear.

It took him two weeks to admit it to himself.

Not just the feelings. But the failure.

He hadn’t been confused. He’d been a coward.

He let you fall while he stood on the edge, too afraid to jump.

And now someone else was learning all the soft, sacred pieces of you he never deserved.

—

You weren’t expecting anyone that night.

It was raining. The kind of rain that didn’t come with thunder—just a quiet, steady fall that wrapped the city in soft gray noise. You had a hoodie on, socks mismatched, fingers curled around a mug of tea gone cold on your desk.

Your phone lit up twice—one from Minho, one from Jiyeon—but you didn’t open either.

Some nights were like this. Still on the surface, but storming underneath.

You didn’t think anything of the knock at your door.

Just a neighbor, maybe. A package. Maybe Jiyeon needing to vent.

But when you opened it—

Your whole body froze.

There he was.

Hyunjin.

Soaked to the bone, hood pushed back, hair dripping onto the collar of his jacket. His eyes looked darker than usual—not angry, not cold.

Just… raw.

Like he hadn’t slept.

Like he hadn’t smiled in days.

You couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t even move.

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

His voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges.

“Just—can you let me talk? Please.”

You stepped back.

Barely. A breath of space.

And he took it like it was a lifeline.

He stood in your entryway dripping water onto your rug, shivering slightly, looking around like it was all unfamiliar.

But you both knew it wasn’t.

“You’re still drinking that chamomile stuff,” he murmured, eyes catching the mug on your desk. “I always hated the way it smelled.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t tell him you started drinking it more after he stopped texting you.

Didn’t tell him Minho liked it. Said it suited you.

Hyunjin swallowed. “I’ve been an idiot.”

You crossed your arms.

“I don’t mean the usual kind of idiot,” he added quickly. “I mean… the kind who gets handed something rare—something real—and is too scared to hold onto it.”

Your throat tightened.

“I told myself I didn’t want to risk losing you,” he went on. “But I lost you anyway, didn’t I?”

You said nothing.

Because the pain was still there. The crack. The weight. The memory of the rooftop and the way his silence felt like your own body turning against you.

“I saw you with Minho,” he admitted, eyes searching yours now. “And it hurt. God, it fucking hurt. Not because he did anything wrong—he didn’t. He’s good to you. I could see it. That’s what scared me.”

You looked down.

He took a step closer.

“Because I realized I didn’t want you to move on,” he whispered. “Not from me.”

A breath caught in your chest.

“I wanted to be the one who made you laugh like that. The one who made you feel seen. But I gave that up, didn’t I? I gave it up because I was too much of a coward to admit I loved you.”

The silence rang loud.

Too loud.

You blinked, voice breaking. “Loved?”

His face crumpled—gently, like he was unraveling all at once.

“Love,” he corrected. “I love you. Present tense.”

A pause.

And then, softer:

“I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t expect you to take me back. But if there’s even a piece of you that still feels something… I had to come. I had to try. Because if I lose you forever without telling you how I feel, I won’t survive it.”

You stared at him. At the boy who once shattered your heart and then stood there hoping you’d pretend it never happened.

Only now, he wasn’t asking you to pretend.

He was asking you to believe him.

To believe this mattered. To believe you mattered.

Even after everything.

You stood there trembling.

His words echoed through the room, too loud and too soft all at once. You hadn’t meant to cry, but the tears were already sliding down your face—slow, silent, uninvited. You didn’t even try to stop them.

You didn’t know what to say.

Because you had wanted this. You had dreamed of this.

And now that it was here, it didn’t feel real.

Your fingers clenched at your sides.

You still loved him. God, you loved him so much it hurt.

That was the problem. That had always been the problem.

You had never stopped.

You turned away before he could see your face break completely. Your voice came out thin.

“Your clothes are soaked. You’re gonna get sick.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

You went to your drawer and pulled out a hoodie—his, ironically, one he’d left at your place months ago and probably forgotten. You hadn’t. You wore it once when the world felt especially heavy.

You walked back and handed it to him, not meeting his eyes.

“There’s towels in the bathroom,” you mumbled. “You can dry off in there.”

He hesitated. Then nodded, quiet. “Thanks.”

You didn’t say anything else.

—

The rain got heavier.

It pounded against your windows, against the balcony outside your room. The whole apartment felt suspended in that stormy cocoon—like time had been paused by the sky itself.

You stood by your bed, arms around yourself, chest aching.

How many times had you imagined this moment?

How many times had you told yourself it would never come?

And now he was here.

In your bathroom. Wearing the hoodie you used to cry in. Telling you he loved you.

Your knees nearly buckled under the weight of it.

When he stepped out again, hair damp but drying, hoodie slung over his frame like it still belonged to him, he looked… softer.

Not small. Just real.

Your gaze lifted. Locked with his.

Neither of you spoke.

But something shifted.

In the stretch of silence. In the sound of the storm. In the space between your heart and his.

And then, he moved.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right. Like he wanted to give you every chance to step back.

You didn’t. You didn’t move an inch.

Not even when he reached out, thumb brushing just under your eye to catch a tear you hadn’t noticed was still falling.

“Still hurts?” he whispered.

You nodded. A breath.

“Me too.”

Then—

His hand slid to your jaw, gentle, reverent.

And he kissed you.

It wasn’t hungry or desperate.

It was slow. Careful. Terrified.

Like he was asking.

Please. Let me back in.

And you— You let him.

Because your heart had never been Minho’s.

Because you never stopped waiting for this.

For Hyunjin.

For this kiss.

For him.

His lips moved like he was afraid to touch you fully.

Not because he didn’t want to—because he did, you could feel it, the trembling in his fingers, the way his breath stuttered against your cheek—but because he was terrified of breaking you again.

And maybe he already had.

Maybe you were already in pieces, just standing there, letting him kiss you.

But your hands found his hoodie, your fingers curling tight into the fabric at his chest, and you tilted your head into him, letting the kiss deepen. Just slightly. Just enough.

He gasped when you kissed back.

A sound so full of relief, you nearly choked on it.

His arms came around you in a rush then, like he’d been holding back every instinct for weeks and couldn’t anymore—like he was suddenly starving and you were the only thing that could fill him.

You clung to him just as desperately.

It was messy. It was soaked in heartbreak. It tasted like too much and not enough.

He kissed you like he was scared this would be the last time.

And maybe it would be, if you didn’t speak now.

You broke the kiss with a trembling breath, forehead pressed to his, his hands still cradling your face.

Your voice cracked.

“I waited for you.”

His whole body stilled.

“I waited, and you didn’t come.”

“God,” he whispered, eyes squeezing shut. “I know.”

You were crying again. Quiet. Angry at yourself for still loving him. Angry at him for giving you this only after you’d shattered trying to forget.

“I couldn’t even look at Minho without thinking of you,” you said. “I tried. I wanted to move on. But you—” your voice broke, “you were everywhere.”

Hyunjin’s eyes opened. Bloodshot. Glistening.

“You should hate me,” he said. “I hate me.”

“Then why didn’t you just say yes?” you asked, choking on it. “On that rooftop. Why did you make me beg for a rejection?”

“I was scared,” he confessed, so broken it hurt to hear. “You were real. You were everything. I didn’t know how to be the person who deserved you.”

“Then why now?” you whispered. “Why come back?”

He brushed his thumb over your cheek again, voice shaking.

“Because I couldn’t breathe without you. I thought I could live with letting you go, but I couldn’t. I tried. I tried so hard. But seeing you with him—” he swallowed hard—“I lost my mind. Not because of jealousy. Because I knew he could give you what I threw away.”

You didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

You leaned into him, both of you trembling.

And then his mouth was on yours again—more desperate this time, more raw, like the floodgates had broken and neither of you knew how to stop.

His hands cupped your face, then tangled in your hair.

Yours slid under the hoodie, fingers curling into his shirt like he’d disappear if you didn’t hold on tight enough.

It wasn’t about sex.

It wasn’t even about comfort.

It was grief.

It was love.

It was apology.

And it was need.

You kissed like you were trying to put all the broken pieces back in each other.

And for a moment, maybe you did.

—

The next morning, the world was hushed.

Golden light streamed through the blinds, soft and warm, like the universe was trying to offer you a gentle landing after the storm.

Hyunjin was still asleep on your couch, one arm draped over his eyes, the borrowed hoodie rising and falling with each breath. He looked peaceful. Tired. Like someone who had cried himself to sleep in someone else’s arms.

Because he had.

And you… you were wide awake.

Your heart felt like a tender bruise. Not aching in the same sharp way it used to, but sore with memory. With love. With everything you still hadn’t unpacked.

And there was still one thing you had to do.

You sat in the café before Minho arrived, nursing a coffee you barely touched. Your hands were cold, even with the cup between them.

He spotted you from the door, gave you a soft, tired smile.

He already knew.

Minho sat down across from you like it wasn’t the end of something. He didn’t even make you start.

“You let him in.”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He nodded slowly, then looked out the window for a long moment.

“I figured it would happen,” he said, tone light, but not careless. “He had that look in his eyes when he saw us. Like someone waking up too late.”

“I never tried to use you,” you whispered. “I promise. I just… didn’t want to keep bleeding over him forever.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched. Comfortable. Sad.

“I liked you,” he said. “A lot. Still do, in a way. But I could never get to the place he had in you. You looked at me and I always saw him sitting behind your eyes.”

Tears welled again. You didn’t want to cry—not for this. Not for hurting someone who didn’t deserve it.

But Minho smiled.

“I’m not mad. Heartbreak’s messy. And I’d rather lose like this than keep you with me when your heart’s still somewhere else.”

You blinked, stunned.

“You’re kind of perfect,” you muttered, wiping a tear.

Minho grinned. “Don’t forget it.”

And just like that, he stood, patted your head, and said goodbye.

⸻

Hyunjin waited until you were ready.

For a week, he gave you space. Checked in gently. No pressure. Just warmth. Just patience.

And then— He asked if he could take you out. On a real date.

You stared at the message for a long time before smiling.

Yes.

It was an easy answer.

He took you to the planetarium.

It was quiet, empty enough that your footsteps echoed as you walked side by side into the main observatory dome. The room was dark, filled with a slow-spinning map of the stars across the curved ceiling. Everything glowed faintly blue and silver.

You stood there in the dark, hand brushing against his.

He turned to you with a soft smile. “When I was a kid, I used to think people became stars when they died.”

You looked at him, heart full.

“I think people are stars,” you said. “We just don’t always shine the same.”

He stared at you, eyes wide, something fragile flickering behind them.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered.

You reached for his hand fully this time. “So are you.”

He kissed you under a sky of constellations, hand on your waist, lips soft and sure. There was no rush, no storm.

Just you. And him.

And something whole blooming between you.

You didn’t say it out loud that night, but you felt it so deeply it poured out of you anyway—through your smile, your kiss, your laughter, your joy.

You were smitten.

So in love it made your chest ache in the best way.

He looked at you like he was seeing the stars for the first time.

And for the first time in a long time…

You felt complete.

—

The special moments started small.

A look that lingered too long.

A touch that lasted a heartbeat more than it should.

A silence that simmered.

You noticed it the second time he kissed you.

The night after the planetarium, when he walked you home again and kissed you outside your door like he wasn’t ready to let go yet. You had your hands tangled in the front of his coat, half on your tiptoes, the warmth of his breath brushing against your lips even after the kiss ended.

You’d pulled away first. Barely.

And he’d looked at you like that—like his control was fraying.

“I should go,” he murmured, but he didn’t move.

Your fingers had clenched tighter in his coat.

So close. So warm. So real.

“Yeah,” you breathed, your voice too soft, too unsure. “Probably.”

He kissed you again anyway. Deeper this time.

It kept happening.

Little moments that crackled with heat.

Moments that made your skin tingle and your thoughts spiral.

He’d tuck your hair behind your ear and let his fingers trail just a little too long against your jaw.

You’d lie on your couch watching a movie and realize his thumb was drawing slow circles into the back of your hand without even thinking about it.

He’d lean in to whisper something and you’d feel his breath on your neck, and your body would ache.

You never said it.

But he felt it too.

You could see it in the way his jaw tightened when you wore shorts around him. The way he looked away fast, and then looked back, like he couldn’t stop himself. The way his fingers would twitch in his lap like they were remembering the shape of your hips.

Neither of you pushed it.

It was careful. Respectful.

But it burned.

⸻

One night, you ended up at his place after dinner. Nothing dramatic. Just takeout, music, the glow of his living room lamp.

You were in one of his hoodies again. Legs folded on his couch.

He was beside you, thigh pressed to yours, half-laughing at a story you told about Minho getting kicked out of a bookstore for sneezing too dramatically.

And then the laughter faded.

And there was quiet.

And you were looking at each other.

His smile softened. Melted.

“I love you,” he said suddenly.

You blinked.

“I know,” you whispered, heart stuttering.

He reached for you, one hand brushing your knee, then your hip, then your waist. His fingers curled there like they belonged.

“I think about you all the time,” he murmured. “Not just like this. I mean… everything. I think about waking up beside you. Cooking with you. Fighting over what movie to watch. I think about what it would be like to make love to someone I actually care about.”

Your breath caught.

You could feel your pulse in your throat.

“And I think about touching you,” he added, voice barely above a whisper. “More than I should. Sometimes it drives me crazy.”

You swallowed hard. “Hyunjin…”

His forehead dropped to yours, breath hot against your lips.

“I don’t wanna rush you. I don’t want to fuck this up. But… if you ever want me, really want me—”

“I do,” you whispered. “I do.”

He kissed you again.

And this time, it wasn’t soft.

It was hot and aching and honest.

A kiss that shook the air out of your lungs, that made you whimper into his mouth.

A kiss that told you he had been waiting.

His hand slid under the hem of your hoodie—slow, careful, worshipful. You felt his palm press against the bare skin of your lower back, and your entire body lit up.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, legs shifting to straddle him without thinking.

You needed him.

Not just physically.

Fully.

And for the first time, you saw it in his eyes—how much he needed you too.

His breath trembled against your lips as he kissed you, deeper now—slow and searching, like he was committing you to memory.

You straddled his lap, knees tucked against the couch cushions, hoodie sliding up your thighs as his hands gripped your waist like he’d dreamt of this a thousand times and still couldn’t believe it was real.

Your hips tilted into him and god, he groaned—low, guttural, like the sound had been ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he whispered against your mouth.

You kissed him harder, dizzy with how much you wanted him. With how long you’d ached for this exact feeling—his hands on you, his mouth devouring you like he was starving.

“I’ve wanted this,” you breathed, forehead pressed to his. “Hyunjin, I’ve wanted you so bad—”

He surged up, catching your lips again, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other slid under your hoodie—warm palm pressing flat against your bare back. His touch burned, delicate and firm at once, like he didn’t know whether to cherish you or ruin you.

Maybe both.

You rolled your hips into him again and he lost it—his grip on you tightening, his mouth trailing fire down your jaw to your throat.

“Let me take you to my bed,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Please. I need to see you—all of you.”

You nodded, breathless. “Take me.”

You barely made it to the room.

He kissed you the whole way there, backing you into the doorway, pulling your hoodie over your head and moaning when he saw you weren’t wearing anything underneath.

“Holy shit, baby…”

His hands roamed, reverent, worshipful—fingers trembling slightly as he cupped your breasts, kissed your collarbone, trailed down your ribs like he wanted to map every inch of you.

You undressed him too, slow and needy. Shirt first. Then pants. You couldn’t stop touching him—his lean lines, the muscles under smooth skin, the way his breath caught when your hands slid below his waistband.

And when you finally reached the bed, he laid you down so gently, like you were something precious. Then he hovered over you, eyes locked to yours, full of heat and vulnerability.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice cracked. “So fucking beautiful.”

You pulled him down into another kiss, and then—

His hand slipped between your thighs.

He touched you slowly at first, lips brushing your cheek as his fingers slid through your folds, testing, teasing—until your hips bucked and you whimpered his name.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered. “You’ve been like this for me all night, haven’t you?”

“Longer,” you gasped. “Weeks. Months.”

He cursed under his breath and slipped two fingers inside you, curling just right, dragging moans out of you before you could stop them.

“Hyunjin, please—”

He kissed your temple. “I got you.”

And then he was lining up, breathing hard, pushing in slow.

Your back arched.

He filled you completely.

Deep and thick and hot and perfect.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Only feel.

He groaned into your neck, holding himself still for a second while your body adjusted.

“You’re so tight,” he rasped. “Fuck—so warm. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“Move,” you begged. “Please, Hyunjin—”

And he did.

He fucked you like a man unraveling.

Deep strokes, slow at first—but with every sound you made, every time you gasped his name or dug your nails into his back—he got rougher. Desperate. Unhinged.

“Been dreaming about this,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. “Fantasizing about being inside you, hearing you moan for me—mine, baby, you’re mine—”

“Yes,” you choked out. “I’m yours. God, I’m yours.”

That snapped something in him.

He grabbed your thighs, threw them over his shoulders, and started pounding.

You cried out—head tilted back, fingers clawing at the sheets, the rhythm obscene, filthy, delicious.

“You take me so well,” he groaned, driving in harder. “Look at you, fucking trembling—this is what we were meant for.”

You were gone. Ruined. Drenched in sweat and tears and love.

It was everything.

The heartbreak. The longing. The second chance. All of it crashed into this moment—two people finding each other again in the most primal, vulnerable way.

And when you came, you screamed.

Tears streaming, thighs shaking, sobbing his name.

He followed seconds later, moaning into your mouth as he spilled inside you, his body curling around yours, trembling.

⸻

After, he didn’t move for a long time.

He just held you. Tight. Like you were the center of his universe.

“You okay?” he whispered, brushing hair from your face.

You nodded, still breathless. “I think you just ruined me for anyone else.”

He smiled—soft, shy, proud.

“Good,” he murmured, kissing your forehead. “Because I’m not letting you go again.”

You’d barely caught your breath.

Still tangled in the sheets, your chest rising and falling with each slow inhale, skin flushed and sticky with sweat. Hyunjin was quiet beside you—his fingers tracing lazy lines over your bare back, lips pressing soft, reverent kisses to your shoulder, your temple, your jaw.

“I should clean you up,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and hoarse and wrecked from all the moaning.

You smiled, dazed. “I’m not sure I can stand.”

His laugh was quiet. Tender. “Then I’ll carry you.”

And he did—arms under your thighs and back, cradling you to his chest like you were fragile. Like he wanted to take care of every part of you.

The bathroom was warm. Dim. Steamy from the shower he turned on.

You sat on the counter while he grabbed a warm towel, gently wiping between your legs with a tenderness that made you melt all over again. His hair was a mess, his chest peppered with bite marks, but his eyes never left yours—soft and so full of something it made your chest ache.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded, cupping his cheek. “I’m more than okay.”

He leaned into your touch, lips brushing your palm—and that’s when it changed.

His hand slid to your thigh, slow and deliberate.

His eyes flicked down. Then up. Then to the mirror behind you.

“Look at you,” he said softly. “You’re fucking glowing.”

You felt it, too.

The heat between your legs rising again.

The tension sparking all over your body.

“Hyunjin…”

He didn’t kiss you this time. Not at first.

He turned you around.

Gently. Slowly. Until your palms were pressed flat against the cool marble counter, your back arched just slightly, and your eyes locked to his through the reflection.

He stood behind you, hands running down your arms, then your sides, then gripping your hips from behind.

The mirror caught everything.

Your parted lips. Your flushed skin. The way your thighs clenched at the way he looked at you.

“You’re so fucking sexy like this,” he murmured into your ear, grinding against your ass with a low groan. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You whimpered. “Then show me.”

And he did.

You felt him again—hard, hot, thick—pressing into your entrance, slow and unbearable, until he was buried deep inside you once more.

Your mouth dropped open. His hands gripped your hips tighter.

And the mirror made it so much worse.

You could see the way his brows furrowed, the way his lip curled when he pulled back and slammed in again—your body jolting forward, your eyes fluttering shut as your moan echoed off the tile walls.

“Open your eyes,” he growled, fucking into you harder now. “Watch.”

And when you did—

You saw it all.

The way his body curved into yours.

The way your tits bounced with every thrust.

The way his jaw clenched, desperate, possessive, lost in you.

“You look so good like this,” he groaned. “Letting me fuck you in front of a mirror like a filthy little angel.”

You moaned. “Hyunjin—fuck—”

He reached around to grab your throat, just enough pressure to tilt your chin up—forcing you to hold the eye contact, to see the mess he was making of you.

“You love this,” he hissed. “Being ruined like this. Being mine.”

“I do,” you gasped. “I love you—Hyunjin, I love you so much—”

That shattered him.

He bent over you, caged you in with his arms, and pounded harder—deeper—his teeth scraping against your neck, his moans falling ragged against your ear.

“I love you too,” he choked. “I’m so in love with you—fuck, baby, I can’t hold back—”

Your body clenched. Your thighs trembled.

And when you came this time, you saw yourself unravel.

You watched the moment your face broke apart in the mirror—watched Hyunjin’s eyes lock to yours as he fucked you through it, whispering your name like a prayer as he came inside you again, deep and pulsing and perfect.

You collapsed against the counter, boneless and spent. He held you up, breathing hard, his chest pressed to your back as he kissed your shoulder softly.

“You wreck me,” he whispered.

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut.

“Good,” you breathed. “Because I’m not done wrecking you either.”

After the second round, your body was jelly.

Warm, aching, full of him—so full of him you could still feel the echo of his thrusts hours later.

Hyunjin carried you back to bed, wet towel slung over his shoulder, your skin freshly cleaned but your cheeks still flushed, your lips swollen from all the kissing. He tucked you into the sheets like you were sacred, brushing damp strands of hair from your face, placing the gentlest kiss to your forehead.

You curled into his chest, and for the first time in forever, your body truly relaxed.

“Did I hurt you?” he whispered, stroking your spine with featherlight fingers.

You shook your head, half-asleep. “You made me feel everything.”

His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer until you were tangled up in him again, your cheek pressed over his heartbeat.

He nuzzled into your hair. “Thinking back, I was so scared you wouldn’t let me in.”

“I almost didn’t,” you murmured, drowsy. “You really fucked up, Hyunjin.”

“I know,” he said, his voice low with guilt. “I was a coward. I thought pushing you away would protect me from messing it up, but I ended up hurting you worse. Hurting myself too.”

You shifted just enough to look up at him. His eyes were soft and open now. No walls. No distance.

“I never stopped loving you,” you said quietly.

His lips parted. “Even when I broke your heart?”

“Especially then,” you whispered.

The weight of that landed hard between you—and then he was kissing you again. Soft and slow, all emotion. No rush, no hunger this time. Just pure devotion. You moaned into it, wrapping your arms around his neck as he hovered over you, chest to chest, lips to lips.

He kissed your nose. Your eyelids. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth. He worshipped every inch like he was making up for lost time.

“You’re my everything,” he murmured. “I never want to be without you again.”

“Then don’t be,” you said. “I’m yours. Always.”

⸻

Spring came slowly that year.

The trees bloomed in soft pinks and pale greens, and everything felt like it was waking up again. You too.

It had been three months since that rainy night. Three months since Hyunjin stood in your doorway with his heart on his sleeve and yours clenched in his hands. Since you let him in—into your apartment, your bed, your life.

And now?

You were his.

Not in the possessive way he used to fear, but in the gentle, deliberate way that felt real. Solid. Like something that had been growing quietly beneath the surface all along, just waiting for the right season to bloom.

“Here,” Hyunjin said, setting a cup of tea on your desk as you buried yourself in editing your thesis. “Made it just the way you like it.”

You blinked up at him, smiling. “You’re spoiling me.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “You deserve it.”

He meant it. Every word. You could see it in his eyes now—no hesitation, no deflection. Just warmth. Confidence. Love.

Sometimes, you caught him staring when he thought you wouldn’t notice. His chin resting on his hand, gaze soft and open. Like he still couldn’t believe you were here, his. Like he was trying to memorize your face a hundred different ways.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you teased one night, sprawled on his couch with popcorn in your lap and your feet in his.

“Because I’m in love with you,” he said simply. “Still not over it.”

⸻

Your friend group got used to the change quickly.

Jiyeon called you “disgustingly cute” with a fake gag, but kept smiling after. Minho never said much—just gave Hyunjin a knowing look whenever they passed by each other and nodded once, like they had an understanding. No bad blood. Just quiet grace.

And the sex?

Still toe-curling. Still addictive.

But now it came with pillow talk. Inside jokes. Morning kisses and shared playlists. Him dancing you around the kitchen with pancake batter on your nose, hands on your hips, forehead against yours.

It came with safety. Intimacy. The kind of closeness that felt earned.

You’d been through every version of heartache with Hyunjin.

And now you were building every version of healing.

⸻

He took you on a picnic for your six-month anniversary.

Cherry blossoms in full bloom, a checkered blanket under the trees, his sketchbook in his lap as he tried to draw you mid-laugh—messy and imperfect, but so full of love.

“You know,” he said, glancing over the top of the page, “I used to be scared I’d ruin us if I ever crossed the line.”

You reached for his hand. “And now?”

He smiled. “Now I’m scared I’ll never be able to love anyone the way I love you.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his. Soft. Sure. Smitten.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because you’ll never have to.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Guys 🥹 I think I fell in love with Hyunjin all over again!!! And lord knows I TESTED myself with the amount of fluff a d emotions in this lmao.. anyway guys, we are hitting 1k soon and I’m so excited! 😭❤️ its been 3 months of writing back to back and there’s already so many fics in the masterlist! Thanks for all the support, love you guys!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @sagestarlight @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @universeyuto @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki

[enwoso]

weight of the world | part three

alessia russo x baby!reader

-> based on this request | some upsetting themes throughout so read with caution

grumpy masterlist | part two here

it took two days for alessia to even work up the courage to message ella and even then her finger hovered over the send button for a few minutes before she quickly clicked it before she had time to talk herself out of it.

less | ‘hey. can we talk? i'm really sorry.’

the reply came within seconds, like ella had been waiting.

tooney | ‘course. whenever your ready, come by carrington.’

alessia stared at the message until the screen dimmed. even then, she didn't move. her fingers stayed clenched around her phone like it was the only thing tethering her to something real.

her stomach churned the whole drive over. her hands trembled on the steering wheel. part of her wanted to turn around. to just disappear. to just go back home where you and her mum was. but the guilt, the shame—it sat in her chest like a stone.

and underneath it all, a deeper, more painful fear: what if they didn't want her anymore? what if alessia had pushed too hard, too far, and broken the very thing that used to feel like home?

when she got there she stood outside the changing room for nearly five full minutes.

carrington sounded different now—brighter, louder. the energy buzzed in the walls. laughter echoed down the hall.

it felt so far from the silence of alessia's flat, from the wails and whimpers and isolation that clung to her like a second skin.

it felt like life. and alessia didn't know if she belonged in it anymore. but she stepped inside anyway. the room quieted almost instantly when the door clicked shut behind her.

several of the girls looked up from tying boots, laughing over playlist debates, sipping protein shakes. conversations stilled. expressions shifted. curiosity. concern. relief.

and then ella stood up from the bench. ella looked exactly how alessia remembered—steady, grounded, warm—but something flickered in her eyes. caution. hope. a kind of quiet ache.

"hey," alessia said, voice barely above a whisper.

"hey you," ella replied. alessia swallowed hard. the words were burning in her throat.

"i- i was wrong," alessia said. "i wasn't okay. and i took it out on you. on everyone. i thought i could hold it all together, but i couldn't. i didn't. i'm really sorry."

ella didn't speak for a moment. her jaw clenched—once, twice—and then she stepped forward. "we never needed you to be perfect, less," ella said a soft smile on her lips. "just honest."

alessia nodded as her voice cracked. "i- i didn't know how. i thought if i slowed down, everything would fall apart. that i would."

"you were falling apart," ella said gently. "you just didn't have to do it alone."

and that was it. the dam cracked open.

"i'm scared all the time, el," alessia whispered. "i love her so much it hurts and i'm constantly terrified i'm doing it wrong. that i'll mess her up. that i already have. i've been so angry and tired and empty and i didn't know what else to be. and i thought... i thought you'd hate me."

ella blinked quickly, trying to keep her own tears from surfacing. ella stepped closer, her voice a murmur.

"i was scared too," ella admitted. "not because you yelled. but because i thought you might hate me. for calling your mum. for stepping in."

alessia looked up at her then, properly. her mouth opened, then closed again. alessia shook her head, overwhelmed. "i don't," she managed. "i couldn't hate you. i think... i think you saved me."

and then ella—blunt, bold, unshakable ella—wrapped her arms around alessia like she'd been waiting weeks to do it.

held alessia like she wasn't fragile, but sacred. held alessia like friendship was a promise, not a transaction.

"you don't have to be anything but here," ella whispered. "we've got you. and we've got y/n."

around them, the girls slowly stood. millie came over first, squeezing alessia's shoulder without a word. then mary, who gently took alessia's bag and set it down like it was nothing.

one by one, the team drifted closer—not swarming, just present.

someone handed alessia water. someone else a towel. little things, quiet gestures.

but to alessia, they felt like lifelines. they didn't ask questions. didn't make a scene. they just showed up.

and after weeks of isolation and silence, that was enough to split something open in alessia's chest—something that ached and healed all at once.

for the first time in what felt like forever, alessia let herself believe it: she wasn't alone anymore. she didn't have to do this alone.

not with you. not with the fear. not with the healing.

alessia had them. and they had her.

⸻

a couple of weeks had passed and the mornings still started early. but they were getting lighter. you were waking only once a night now, around four a.m. your soft gurgles and sleepy kicks a gentle, almost sacred alarm clock in the grey-blue hush of dawn.

alessia didn't resent the early hour like she used to although she does sometimes find her self dreaming of a lie in once in a while but she now didn't meet the sunrise with dread or panic or that crushing sense of failure before the day had even begun.

there was a rhythm now. not perfect. not smooth. but it was hers.

alessia moved slower in the mornings, with more care than urgency. less like she was sprinting against time, more like instead she was moving along with it.

alessia lifted you from your crib and pressed a kiss to your warm, squishy forehead. you smelled like baby lotion, milky breath, and dreams. with your small fingers curled instinctively around alessia's shirt as you yawned, blinking up at your mummy with pure, sleepy trust.

"good morning, my little love," alessia whispered, rocking gently, swaying on the balls of her feet like it was second nature now.

the house still bore the marks of a life interrupted—but it no longer looked like a war zone.

there was a bib draped over the couch. a half-folded baby blanket on the armchair. your toys littered the corner like evidence of joy instead of chaos.

the sink had dishes, sure—but there was food in the fridge. a half-drunk coffee on the table. a warmth in the walls.

not neat. no where near pristine. but lived in. loved in. safe.

alessia's mum had returned back home to kent three days ago—but not before leaving order behind like breadcrumbs in the woods.

there was fresh calendar hung on the fridge, days colour-coded between training sessions, therapy check-ins, and your growing milestones. a corkboard held emergency contacts, appointment slips, and a laminated sleep guide ('just in case, love')

and there, stuck to the front of the freezer with a magnet shaped like a heart, was a small, handwritten note on floral stationery:

dr. finch – women's health & postnatal support private line. safe, discreet. kind.

alessia had stared at it since her mum had placed it there. she'd walked past it, opened the fridge for oat milk, stared, then shut the door again.

alessia had told herself she was fine. that the worst had passed. that she was stronger now.

but every night, when the quiet crept in again—when the world shrank to just alessia and you and the long dark—alessia felt that same undercurrent of fear tug at her ankles.

not drowning anymore. but maybe not exactly steady either.

and so, a few days later, alessia reached out and peeled the note from the fridge. sat on the couch. phone in hand. heart pounding.

alessia's thumb hovered over the number like it was a trigger. and then alessia tapped it.

the phone rang once. then twice. then a voice answered, warm and even. "dr. finch's office. this is morgan. how can i help?"

alessia's voice caught for a second, thick in her throat. then she exhaled. "i- um i think i need someone to talk to," alessia said quietly. "um i'm a new mum. and i... i think i'm not okay."

there was no judgment. no silence. just a gentle, "of course. we can help with that." and for the first time in a long time, alessia didn't feel weak for asking. she felt brave.

she looked down at you—now curled up on your mummy's chest, snoring softly—and tucked the blanket around your tiny body.

maybe it wasn't about getting it all right. maybe it never had been.

maybe it was just about showing up—over and over. messy, tired, healing. but still here. still choosing to keep going.

[midnightquips]

What We Never Were

Jake Seresin x Reader

Summary: Y/N needs a fake boyfriend for her sister’s wedding. Jake Seresin, her childhood best friend, is all too happy to play the part—until pretending starts to feel dangerously real. One bed. Old feelings. A week of dancing around the truth.

She thinks he’s out of reach. He’s just been waiting for her to see him.

Themes: fake dating, bestfriends to lovers, pining, slow burn, fluff, smut, mild praise kink, foreplay, 18+

Story Masterlist

Chapter 1 

Part III: Lines Crossed, Wires Tangled

The night unfolded easier than you expected.

You laughed more than you thought you would. Shared stories, swapped sarcasm. The beer helped. So did Phoenix, who anchored herself beside you with protective energy that kept the testosterone from getting overwhelming.

Jake hovered. Always nearby. Always watching. He brought you fresh drinks before you asked. Tucked your hair behind your ear once when the wind shifted. Stood behind your chair with his arm slung casually over the backrest—casual if you didn’t know Jake Seresin. But you did.

So you knew it meant: Mine. Even if it’s not.

At one point, you nudged his thigh with your elbow. “You gonna stand there all night like my bodyguard?”

Jake shrugged. “You’re nervous in crowds.”

“I’m fine. You should go play or something.”

His eyes flicked toward Rooster—who was leaning far too close to you for Jake’s comfort. “You sure you’ll be okay here?”

“I’m not twelve, Jake.”

Still, he lingered.

“What?” you whined. “I’m afraid people will think I’m your girlfriend or something.”

Jake crossed his arms. “Why not?”

You blinked. “Because it prevents me from getting laid, Jesus, Jake. Go.”

Phoenix choked on her drink. Bob tried not to laugh. Rooster did not try at all.

Jake sighed, muttering as he walked toward the pool table.

You didn’t mean it to be a dagger, but it hit anyway.

You sipped your beer, turned back to Phoenix, Rooster, and Bob—and immediately felt the shift in attention.

Phoenix leaned in. “So. You and Jake. Never?”

You rolled your eyes. “We get this question a lot.”

“But never?” Rooster asked, tilting his head.

You took a long sip. “You think Jake would still respect me like this if we had?”

Phoenix raised her brows in agreement. “Yeah, he can be a real dick to girls that fawn over him.”

“He can be a real dick in general,” you muttered.

Bob chuckled. “Sounds like you hate him.”

“I love Jake to death,” you said honestly. “But I’ve known him since before he hit puberty. I have no illusions about who he is. He might make the rest of the world think he’s a god, but I know better.”

Rooster sighed dramatically, resting his chin on his hand. “I really like you.”

You laughed, then felt the burn of someone watching.

Jake was gripping his cue stick tighter than necessary across the room, eyes locked on the way Rooster was looking at you like you were a song.

Javy wandered up beside him and followed his line of sight.

“You always do this,” Javy said. “Quit being creepy.”

Jake didn’t even glance away. “Do what?”

“Act like you’re her husband, when you keep swearing you���re just friends. Which, by the way, no one believes.”

Jake scoffed. “We are. It’s always been platonic.”

“Bullshit. You weren’t like this with Amanda.”

Jake flinched at the name.

Amanda—his ex of three years who’d demanded he cut you out of his life.

“We’ve been through a lot,” Jake muttered.

“Sure. Still doesn’t explain how you’re practically vibrating with rage every time Rooster breathes near her.”

Jake didn’t answer. Javy smirked and nodded toward the table.

“Let Rooster hit on her, then. See what happens.”

Jake’s head snapped around. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“She’s a grown woman. She can decide for herself.”

“That’s not an answer, man.”

Jake clenched his jaw. “Fine. I just trust her enough to shut him down.”

His eyes darted back to the table—where Rooster was now tracing the scar on your palm like he was asking for your damn star sign.

“Rooster?” Jake huffed. “She can do better.”

“Like who? Fanboy?”

Joaquin, overhearing his name, looked up. “What?”

“Would you date Y/N?” Javy asked with a smirk.

Joaquin froze, glanced at Jake’s expression, and immediately backpedaled. “Not with Jake around.”

Jake glared. “Fuck off.”

Javy just patted his shoulder. “You’re in so deep, man.”

Jake didn’t answer. Just turned back toward the table, cue in hand, glaring at Rooster like he could snap the man in half using only his thoughts.

[missust3l3vision]

FINALLY SOMEONE WHO WRITES FOR JOOST

Would you be willing to do a fic with Joost and his stylist dating?

EEEK!! YEAH I LOVE HIM

Here you go my dearest anon

Description: Joost and his stylist/girlfriend have a calm night, with him falling even deeper in love with her.

You never in a million years thought you'd be here. Sitting next to Joost Klein as you sketched his next outfit for the tour.

You were not only is girlfriend but his stylist aswell. It was your job for the man to be on theme but also look good.

He was having a 2000s meets corporate look right now, and she thought he looked very handsome. She let him know it often.

"I think the tie should be fat" Joost said pointing at the blue and yellow striped tie on the models shirt.

"Or should I open up your shirt and show off some skin?" She said tapping the end of the pen on the edge of her tablet.

"Ooo scandalous" he said kissing your cheek "I hope nobody falls in love with me and steals me away from you" He jokes

"If that happened I'd be proud to be your designer and heartbroken as your girlfriend" Y/n responded not looking up from the tablet.

Looking over to the woman he grew to love he couldn't help but feel proud. She was incredibly talented and directed all her artistic skills on him. She was the one to suggest the blue suit for Eurovision and was there to hold him when he was disqualified.

Snapping back to reality Joost chuckled, discarding his headphones he stood up, several pops coming from his back as he twisted. Looking down at his girlfriend he felt a warmth surge through him.

"Should we get dinner?" He asked remembering the time it was. The sky had a soft Indigo hue as it shifted from day to night. It was common for the couple to not eat supper until seven.

"Yeah I guess" she saved the design before switching off the tablet "I'd be down to go out. I want to get some fresh air" she suggested to a nodding man.

As the two ventured off they both silently agreed to go to the Vietnamese place around the corner. It was their go to on late nights like today.

The jingling bell alerted the servers of their arrival as they sat down and ordered. Getting their usuals they rolled into small talk. Joost bringing up some Tik Tok ideas and what he wanted to wear in them.

It was easy talking to Joost, he was charismatic without trying.

"There's one that I really need to be exactly how I envision it oke?" He says with serious eyes. You give him an earnest nod as he explains "It needs to be like one of those I ♡ NY shirts, but instead it say I ♡ Unity. Think you can pull it off?"

As you two share a look you burst out laughing, receiving your food.

"I will need to make some calls, but I think we can make it happen" as the conversation carries on, the warm feeling in Joosts body didn't fade it got stronger.

Once the food was eaten and the bill paid the two walked back their shared flat.

"I love you" Joost said as you walked, the cool night painting a picture behind you. Joost turned to fully face you.

"I love you too" she said as she took his hands in hers, "You're all I want" he gave her a genuine grin leaned down for a kiss, meeting her halfway the two stood there for a moment, the world nothing to them.

No worries, no issues, and best of all no interruptions.

[glitchybitz]

I like to imagine the tummy and scruff that you give your Lux is what would have happened over time if Lux stayed in his Ring-a-Ding form for longer. Not in a “Oh he let himself go” way, but way more in an “art style evolution” kind of sense?

I just love the idea of the initial design changing a bit with Lux influence and character, like the original Ring-A-Ding was designed to be a dandy goody two shoes with a sliiiight womanizing tendency, but I truly believe he was the type of character who would have been often paired with characters who have like actual vices that contrast him so you can have the theme of “Welldoer character having to either wrangle a scamp type of character to contain themself / being set up against more wicked character so he can dance circles around them and beat them without even breaking a sweat.” Think how Bugs Bunny gets often Paired With Daffy Duck for that exact reason? That.

But since Lux is very decidedly not a little goody two shoes the design starts to shift a bit to reflect that. Gets a bit more of a rugged suit, maybe some elbow patches to indicate the wear and tear, some stubble, Ive seen people give him more pinkish fingertips that mimic fingerless gloves etc.

By the end of it he still looks like Ring-A-Ding, but he also clearly has his own charm going on, it’s like holding up a character sheet from the 1930s next to a character sheet from the 1950s, not a complete retool, but there are still noticeable differences and details (Bet even other stuff changes thats a bit less noticeable. Size of his pupils, lineweight, whether his spats are more yellow or white in color etc.)

I hope you don’t mind this ramble in your inbox, but not only is this the type of character and character design that just gets me to THINK about the fictional character AND the fictional FICTIONAL character hes based on and your art is just so delightfully illustrating what’s going on in my head like “Like this you see? He’d look like himself but he would still have CHANGED in some format! Look at how fun he looks in this fanart! That’s what would happen.” All with the most abject admiration for your art.

I hope you have a great day.

Ohohooo what a read!🩵

Now that you bring it up, I'd love the idea of Lux, having taken form of Ring-A-Ding, sort of "melding" and "meshing" with the character itself, and vice-versa 🤔

Now I'm just thinking about the progression from doofy little mischief-making toon to a rougher, gruffer depiction with a new street savoir faire~

Wonder how his own innocence would stay in tact.. like we wouldn't want to ruin him and crush his dreams completely 😭

Aaahdjhd this is just too interesting- you've got ME rambling just a bit as well!

I loved this one, anon! Thank you!🌺✨

[wackywatchdotcom]

woke up like 40 mins ago at like 4:30 unable to fall back alseep so im once again thinking about ragatha and pomni as The Ocd Havers. its everything to me. oh whoops i ran out of tags on this post

[thepoetrytheorist]

If you love Disney, its parks, its media, and its merch, listen up.

So I work for Disneyland, and we are talking about striking very soon. So soon, in fact, that we've been hosting rallies just outside of the parks. Yesterday was the 69th birthday of Disneyland Anaheim... it was also a monumental rally.

I haven't seen anyone on tumblr talking about the impending strikes against Disney. Not even going through the Disney tags or searching tumblr for "Disneyland Strike."

Let's talk about why we're striking:

Cost of living in the immediate SoCal region is nearly 2x as much as we are getting paid.

Cast members that have worked for the company for long periods of time are still paid as mucha s new hires.

Disney has showed up to union negotiations with insulting offers, including at 25 cent raise. Most cast members make $19.90

Disney rarely schedules you. In some areas and departments, you are fighting with your fellow cast members for hours. I have heard of cast members who are only scheduled for 1 4-hour shift per week. Many of those cast members have upwards of an hour commute to and from work.

Disney Admin has told attractions castmembers [so: rides, rollercoasters, and anything fun you get to do and see at the parks] that we are losing them money, which is why they refuse to schedule us and pay us. In the words of my partner, who also works at the parks, Disney without attractions is an over glorified mall and a food court. Disney needs us, and they know it, but they do not respect us.

Disney has an unfair attendance policy. It can be very difficult to get a needed day off, even when it has been requested weeks or months in advance. When you do take a day off [with-out accrued sick or vacation time] it counts against you. You can have 3 a month, 6 in 90 days, 9 in 180 days, or 12 in a year. How do you accrue sick/vacation? Hours worked, which can be impossible with the scheduling practices mentioned above. (Most cast members trade shifts among themselves to get around this.)

Cast members feel unsafe and unsupported in the parks. Many cast members have felt threatened by entitled guests upset that they are following policy. Disney Leads and Managers have to say yes to these guests and make things happen, though. [Which only makes this behavior worse and more dangerous for cast members who are only doing their job.]

Cast members also report feeling threatened, or even being literally threatened, by management in the parks. Especially cast members who have a second job. Especially cast members who know their rights.

Further, cast members work in hazardous conditions with pay that does not reflect that. Many cast members report losses of hearing, sore throats, and severe back and shoulder pain. Cast members are also exposed to infectious diseases at a much higher rate.

https://www.sfgate.com/disneyland/article/union-button-contract-dispute-19515296.php?fbclid=IwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAR2u5o_mvU3i6jpIyHxBUZpEzD2GRSKFf5Pem4uRXqa6vKWDgZuffvINd1g_aem_AA1L0fI1phugJIluYMcDSw

[mephisto-reporting]

Hearbreak Anniversary with Zayne

Summary: It was your anniversary with Zayne. One year of togetherness. But what if he does not show up when you expect him to? What if he was spending it with MC? Pairing: Non MC! Reader x Zayne Note: MC in this fic goes by the name Lina (my name... so if you are angry, you can be angry at me :3). This oneshot was based on this request. I will write this for the other LADS men too. Also I don't think any of these men would ever be the type to actually willlingly forget it. Especially Zayne. So I had to adapt the request a bit. Content Warning: injuries, panic, insecurities, self worth issues, Zayne POV

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version | Caleb Version

Zayne’s apartment smelled like him—clean, crisp, and faintly of the eucalyptus-scented candles he kept on the shelves. You sat on the edge of his couch, smoothing the fabric of your dress down your thighs, nerves making your fingers tremble slightly. The dim light of the chandelier cast a soft glow over the room, illuminating the carefully planned surprise you had for him —flowers, his favorite treats, elegant scarves, and jackets you had spent weeks picking out. The final touch was the flexible weekend getaway tickets, somewhere warm and far from the sterility of hospital walls. A place where he could finally rest.

You had gone all out for tonight. The garden-themed restaurant was supposed to be the perfect setting—a quiet, intimate place where vines curled around twinkling fairy lights, and the soft scent of fresh blooms would fill the air. And you had dressed accordingly with something elegant, something that made you feel beautiful for him. The deep navy-blue dress you wore clung to your form just right, the intricate lace details at the sleeves soft against your skin. You had taken your time getting ready, styling your hair to perfection, slipping on a pair of delicate earrings he once admired absentmindedly. A spritz of white jasmine perfume, the one he once said reminded him of spring mornings. You wanted to look like someone worthy of being by his side. You wanted to be beautiful for him, for the man who had somehow, impossibly, fallen for you.

Because, truth be told, there were times you weren’t sure you were.

you still didn’t understand how this happened—how Zayne, the prodigy, the man who could save lives with his hands and mind, had chosen you. He was brilliant, disciplined, and deeply compassionate. And you? You were just… you. Ordinary in comparison. He never made you feel small, never belittled you, but standing beside him you felt you were just lucky to be there. His world was one of brilliance, filled with extraordinary people—Lina, the fearless Deepspace Hunter; his late friend Caleb, a DAA pilot whose loss still lingered in hushed conversations; his esteemed mentors and fellow doctors who spoke in a language you could only ever grasp at the edges. Compared to them, compared to him, you felt so small.

But tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight, was supposed to be about the two of you.

You had fallen for him in the quietest of ways—through the gentle cadence of his voice, through the moments he noticed things others didn’t. How he’d pull a chair out for you before you could do it yourself, how he’d check the temperature of your tea so you wouldn’t burn your tongue, how he’d listen, really listen, to your ramblings even after a 48-hour shift. He had nestled himself into your heart without you even realizing it.

And tonight, he had insisted he wanted to be with you, even with the chaos of the hospital weighing on his shoulders.

The call came two hours before your reservation. You already knew what he was going to say the moment you saw his name flash on your screen.

“Hey, sweetheart…” Zayne’s voice was warm, familiar, but there was an edge of exhaustion to it. “I’m so sorry. I can’t make it tonight.”

Your heart sank, but you swallowed it down, forcing your voice to remain even. “It’s okay, Zayne. I know you’re busy.”

“It's been a long shift, and the surgeries…”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll cancel the reservation. Take some breaks and rest, okay? You sound tired…”

“I am fine, sweetheart. I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “I swear.”

"It’s fine, Zayne." you whispered, even if it wasn’t. “We’ll just celebrate it another day. No big deal.” Even though it felt like one at the moment.

Still, you weren’t upset. Not really. You understood. You always understood.

You hung up and exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against your lap. It wasn’t his fault. He was working back-to-back shifts, saving lives, doing what he was meant to do. And yet, you couldn’t quite keep the disappointment from settling in your chest.

You exhaled slowly, stripping away the dress you had so eagerly put on just hours ago. You slip into into one of Zayne’s oversized sweaters instead, the one that still smelled like him, the sleeves swallowing your hands. You wear leggings underneath and slip on your shoes. You took your time packing the gifts back into the car, moving slowly, as if dragging out the moment would make it hurt less. Maybe when he was finally done, you could pick him up from the hospital. At least you’d get to see him and surprise him. This was what occupied your time for the next three to four hours.

Once everything was back in the car, you plopped yourself on his plush but ergonomic couch. You scrolled through your phone while waiting, mindlessly tapping through social media, until one post stopped you cold.

Lina’s story.

A picture of her sitting across from Zayne in a small restaurant outside Akso hospital, the caption lighthearted:

When you have to drag out your doctor because he won’t follow his own advice about resting. (-_-)

Zayne looked amused in the photo, tired but still composed, his lips slightly curved in a small, rare smile. He looked… content. His gaze focused on her as if she had just said something ridiculous.

Your fingers trembled as you stared at the screen.

It was stupid. It was so stupid to feel like this. Lina was his childhood best friend. She had never given you a reason to be insecure, and yet, the sting of it hit you like a slow, creeping ache. He had time to go out for a meal with her. He had time to smile like that, even after canceling on you. You knew you were being irrational, that he had only stepped out for a quick bite in his busy shift, yet you felt betrayed.

Tears pricked at your eyes before you could stop them. You wiped them away quickly, but they kept falling, silent at first, then turning into quiet, shuddering sobs. You felt pathetic. Childish. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. You knew he wasn’t. But it hurt anyway. Because you would have taken anything—just a few moments, even just a simple meal at that tiny restaurant, if it meant spending time with him today.

It hurt in a way that made your chest feel tight, made the lump in your throat impossible to swallow. The sting of it crept under your skin like a wound you hadn’t realized was open, raw and aching. The disappointment bled into something uglier, something heavier. Why, after everything, did it feel like you were always on the sidelines of his life? No, Zayne never made you feel that way. It was your own spiraling thoughts.

A loud sob choked its way out, your hands gripping the fabric of his sweater as if that would somehow ground you. You wanted to hate yourself for crying over something so petty. He was saving lives. He was exhausted. He didn’t mean to hurt you.

But it hurt.

You needed to go home. You needed to collect yourself before the ugly thoughts swallowed you whole. You stood up, tears streaming down your face, as the weight of it all seemed too much to bear. You didn’t want to sit here anymore. You didn’t want to wait. You needed to go home, to clear your head, to get away from the overwhelming sense of inadequacy.

You sniffled, grabbing your keys and heading out. The highway would be the fastest route home—less traffic, a straight shot. You rerouted, pressing your foot on the accelerator, trying to breathe through the tightness in your chest. You wiped at your tears quickly, trying to focus on the road.

The road stretched out before you, a wide expanse of concrete and asphalt that felt like it would swallow you whole. The tears wouldn’t stop, and you wiped them away, trying to steady your hands on the wheel, trying to focus on the road ahead. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that you understood, that you were rational about his work. The reality of it, the empty seat next to you, the disappointment of seeing Zayne happy in a photo with someone else, it all felt too much.

And then—

Headlights. Too close. Too fast.

A car jumped the signal, trying to merge into the highway.

You slammed the breaks, the scream of tires against pavement rang in your ears.

The impact was instant. A violent, sickening jolt that sent your body forward, the seatbelt snapping against your chest, the airbag exploding in front of you. The windshield cracked, splintering into a spiderweb of broken glass. Your vision blurred, the world spinning.

Pain.

Your chest burned, lungs straining to catch a breath. Your limbs felt heavy. You reached for the seatbelt, your fingers fumbling, but it was jammed.

Fuck.

Your head lulled forward, resting against the deflated airbag. Your head was heavy, your thoughts slipping away like sand through your fingers. The distant wail of sirens reached your ears, but they felt so far away.

Your vision swam, the edges darkening.

I hope the other person is alright.

The thought barely had time to settle before everything faded into black.

ZAYNE'S POV

The fluorescent lights of the hospital buzzed faintly, casting an artificial glow over the chaos of the emergency room. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the undercurrent of blood—familiar, almost routine, yet tonight it gnawed at Zayne's nerves in a way he couldn't quite shake. He hadn’t left since he stepped through those doors, yet somehow, the guilt weighing on him had nothing to do with the lives he saved today. It was you.

He was tired. God, was he tired. His body screamed for rest, his temples throbbed from the strain of back-to-back shifts, but the hospital was understaffed, and there was no room for exhaustion when lives were at stake. As a cardiologist, his expertise lay in the intricate mechanics of the human heart, but duty demanded flexibility—especially in the ER. Cardiologists weren’t meant to be dealing with blunt force trauma and lacerations, but tonight, none of that mattered. They needed doctors. He was a doctor. So, he worked.

Even through the fatigue, his mind kept drifting back to you. He could still hear your voice from the call earlier, soft and understanding despite the disappointment laced beneath it. You didn’t deserve this. You had every right to be upset, to be frustrated that he had broken his promise, yet you didn’t even complain. That hurt more than if you had yelled at him

God, he loved you. And he hated himself for testing that patience again and again.

His hand tightened around the pen he was holding. He had plans—plans to make it up to you. The necklace in his office drawer, nestled in a velvet box, had been meant for tonight. Something small, perhaps, compared to everything you did, but a token of his devotion nonetheless. He could still salvage this. Maybe he could call you later, ask if you were still awake—

His device beeped, pulling him back to the present.

MVA on the highway. ETA: 5 minutes.

Multi-vehicle accident. Paramedics on site, victims en route.

Zayne exhaled sharply, shifting into work mode. He stepped into the ER just as the first stretcher was wheeled in. The radio chatter from their comms filled the space.

"Female, mid-to-late twenties, restrained driver, T-bone collision from a vehicle that ran a red light. Airbag deployment, but impact trauma to the chest from seatbelt. BP slightly low, likely from pain response. Tachycardic at 112. GCS is 14. Possible wrist fracture, mild concussion. No signs of internal bleeding from the ultrasound, but needs further imaging to rule out any complications."

He nodded briskly, slipping into the detached, clinical efficiency that had been drilled into him for years. It was only as he stepped forward, pulling the curtain aside, that his breath caught in his throat.

His world stopped.

There, on the hospital bed, was you.

Lying on the hospital bed, your hair disheveled, your skin pale against the stark white sheets. His breath lodged in his throat, the world narrowing to a pinpoint focus on the rise and fall of your chest. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. There was dried blood at your temple, your lower lip swollen where you must have bitten down upon impact. The sight of the IV line in your arm, the faint bruises forming along your collarbone—he couldn’t breathe.

No. No. No. No. No.

"Dr. Zayne…" Yvonne’s voice cut in, sharp and urgent. A warning. He was frozen. This wasn't just a patient. This was you.

He blinked, his hands suddenly trembling as he reached for his gloves. Breathe. He had to focus. Had to push past the sheer, gut-wrenching fear threatening to paralyze him.

This is her. She was waiting for me. She—

"Dr. Zayne!!" Yvonne pressed, handing him the updated chart. "She needs you."

That snapped him out of it.

The moment his hands touched you, they were steady again. His voice was even as he examined you, the motions automatic, controlled. He checked your pupils, gently palpated your ribs to assess for fractures. He was a doctor. He was your doctor right now. He had to move. Focusing, he reached for his stethoscope, pressing it against your chest to listen for abnormalities. The rhythm of your heart was steady, but your breathing was just slightly labored—likely from the seatbelt trauma.

"You’re going to be fine." he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

You were stable.

"Her left shoulder—check for AC joint separation," he murmured, voice steadier than he felt. "Get a CT to rule out any internal injuries. And…" He swallowed. “Get me images from the crash site.” He needed to see how bad the collison was. He had to.

The hours blurred. He monitored your scans, adjusted your IV, checked your vitals more times than necessary. Each time his eyes drifted to you; his chest ached. He had seen the accident reports—your car, your windshield shattered, the crumpled hood. And the contents scattered across the scene…

You had planned everything.

For him.

And he wasn’t there.

Zayne clenched his jaw. Flowers were scattered, crushed against the upholstery. The pastries you must have picked out for him were ruined; their boxes torn open from the force of the crash. And gifts. There were so many gifts. He hadn’t even known you had planned all this.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

You had so much waiting for him. And where had he been? At a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, eating with Lina because she forced him to take a break. He had been smiling in that photo while you were—

God.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling shakily as he sat by your bedside. He should have been with you. If he had just—

The monitor beeped steadily, a quiet reminder that you were alive.

Now, he sat beside you, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, fingers curled into his palms to keep them from shaking.

"Wake up, sweetheart." he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "Please, just wake up."

And for once, Zayne—brilliant, composed, always in control—felt utterly powerless.

The beep of the heart monitor was steady, rhythmic, but Zayne found himself gripping the edge of his chair every time you stirred, waiting for that moment when your eyes would finally open. His body was stiff from staying in the same position for hours, but he didn’t dare move. He didn’t want to miss it.

Then, a small shift in your breathing. A twitch of your fingers.

Zayne leaned forward just as your lashes fluttered, your eyes cracking open, only to squeeze shut again at the harsh fluorescent lights. You groaned softly, shifting against the sheets. Instinctively, you tried to sit up.

"Hey—stay put," Zayne said immediately, pressing a hand against your shoulder to keep you down. His touch was gentle but firm, his fingers warm even against the hospital gown. "Don’t move too much yet."

Your body resisted for a moment, muscles tensing as if you wanted to argue, but the disorientation dulled your fight. Your gaze finally settled on him, hazy with the remnants of sleep and confusion.

Then you frowned.

“…You look tired,” you murmured, your voice soft, still groggy. “How long have you been here?”

Zayne’s heart clenched so tightly it hurt. Even now, even when you were the one lying in a hospital bed, barely recovered from an accident, your first thoughts were about him.

His throat felt tight, but he exhaled sharply, forcing himself to speak. “You should look at yourself first, sweetheart.”

Your gaze flickered down, taking in the IV in your arm, the bruises along your wrist, the faint soreness that no doubt ached across your body. Zayne exhaled sharply and reached out, his fingertips tracing the side of your face before cupping your cheek fully. His thumb brushed lightly against your skin, as if grounding himself with the warmth of you. His eyes were moist, though no tears fell.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low, raw in a way that stripped away every layer of his usual composure.

You parted your lips, breath hitching as if you were about to reassure him—to do what you always did, to let him off the hook, to tell him it wasn’t his fault.

But he didn’t let you.

“No,” he cut in firmly, shaking his head. “Not this time. This is the one time you shouldn’t be so understanding.” His jaw clenched, something bitter twisting in his expression. “I should have been there. We should have been celebrating our relationship. End of discussion.”

Silence settled between you.

After a beat, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair before looking at you again. “Why didn’t you demand my time?” His voice was quieter now, tinged with regret. “You had every right to.”

You hesitated, glancing away. “…I didn’t want to bother you.” Your fingers twisted into the hospital blanket, grip tightening slightly. “You’re important, Zayne. You save lives. I didn’t want to pull you away from that.”

Something in him snapped.

He let out a sharp breath, then reached for your hand, gently prying your fingers from the blanket. His grip was warm, grounding.

“Shh… And you think you’re not?” he murmured, shaking his head. “Don’t ever say that again.” His gaze bore into yours, unwavering. “You are important to me.”

"You’re important to me," he repeated, voice steady but almost desperate. "Just like my work makes demands of me, you are more than entitled to make demands of me, too."

Your eyes searched his, uncertainty flickering beneath the lingering haze of exhaustion. But Zayne’s gaze didn’t waver.

"I know I should have been there," he said again, quieter this time. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before brushing a thumb over the edge of your jaw, tilting your face slightly. “When I saw you on this bed when I entered the ER… pale, unconscious… I haven’t felt fear like that before," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not in all my years of doing this. Not like that."

You didn’t say anything, but your hand came up slowly, resting over his.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling.

This—this was what he almost lost.

His jaw clenched, then loosened as he exhaled. “I don’t want to ever feel it again.”

Another pause.

Zayne inhaled deeply, steadying himself. His hand still cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing absentminded circles against your skin, as if reassuring himself that you were still here. That you were warm. That he hadn’t lost you.

“I know I say I’m sorry a lot… and it probably has lost meaning to you.” he murmured; his voice rough with emotion. His lips pressed into a thin line, as if struggling to put his feelings into something more tangible. “I should have been there. And I will be. Every step of the way until you’re fully recovered and after....”

His eyes flickered downward, scanning you like the doctor he was, but this was different. This wasn’t just clinical analysis—this was personal. "You got lucky," he admitted, exhaling through his nose. "Blunt force trauma to the ribs, a mild concussion, and a broken wrist. Some lacerations on your arm and leg, but nothing deep enough to require surgical intervention. The worst was the head trauma, but the scans came back clear. No bleeding, no swelling. That’s the only reason I’m not having a complete breakdown right now…" His fingers ghosted over your arm, careful not to apply pressure. "Nothing life-threatening or with lasting consequences. But still… you shouldn’t have had to go through that alone." His jaw tensed. "Not when you have me."

You gave him a small, tired smile at that, and something inside him twisted.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to reach into his pocket, his fingers closing around the small velvet box. He’d gone to his office to clock off for the day to be beside you when he picked it up from his drawer. The very box he wanted to give you today. The one that was supposed to be given in a far more joyful setting. This was supposed to be today. A night spent celebrating the two of you—not this. Not hospital beds and IV drips and the hollow fear that had nearly swallowed him whole.

But none of that mattered now.

What mattered was that you were here. And this… this was still yours.

His throat felt thick as he flipped it open, revealing the necklace inside—a delicate silver chain holding a white jasmine pendant, smooth and polished, its petals carved with intricate detail. And behind it, barely visible, were his initials.

His fingers trembled just slightly as he took it out.

"I was supposed to give this to you today," he admitted, voice lower now, almost guilty. "Before all of this. Before I let my own priorities get in the way of what really mattered." He glanced up at you, and for the first time in a long time, he looked vulnerable. "I don’t want you to ever think that you come second. Because you don’t. You never have."

Gently, he reached around your neck, his touch featherlight as he fastened the clasp. The cool metal of the pendant settled just above your collarbone, resting against your skin. His fingertips lingered there, just briefly.

Then he let out a slow breath, tilting your chin up just slightly with his knuckles. His mind still reeled with everything that had happened, with everything he should have done differently.

"I love you," he said, and this time there was no hesitation, no wry smirk to mask his emotions, no half-hearted deflection. Just honesty, raw and unguarded. "Even when I do a crappy job at showing it." He didn’t need you to say it back—he just needed you to know.

For a moment, silence stretched between you. Then, his lips quirked, just slightly, into something softer. "And since I’m apparently on mandatory bedside duty, I hope you’re ready to be completely spoiled. I’m talking fresh coffee, extra pillows, a ridiculous number of medical advices—"

A small, breathy laugh escaped you, and Zayne felt something in his chest loosen at the sound. Then, slowly, you lifted a hand, brushing your fingertips over the pendant before reaching up to cup his cheek.

Zayne leaned into your touch instinctively, exhaling softly. He smiled, finally, pressing his forehead lightly against yours. "Yeah," he murmured. "We’ll be just fine. I've got you sweetheart... I'll always be here for you."

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version | Caleb Version

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie @loverindeepspace @sinsodom

[021894s]

TANGLED DESIRES- p.sh

PAIRING: enemy!sunghoon x f!reader

SYNOPSIS: At a prestigious private school, you and Park Sunghoon are locked in a constant rivalry. During a party at your friend Karina’s, a heated argument between you two escalates into an unexpected, passionate encounter. The next morning, you wake up in his arms, forcing both of you to confront the new, complicated tension between you. As you navigate the fallout and shifting feelings, you start to question if your biggest enemy might actually be something much more.

GENRE: enemies to lovers, rich kids au

WARNINGS: smut (unprotected sex, oral sex) rivalry, hurt feelings, angst. ALL ARE OF AGE

wc: 15.4k

You attend the most prestigious school in Korea, where the sky-high tuition fees are only accessible to those born into pure wealth. This elite institution is a playground for the richest families, and your name is synonymous with success. Your family, being the owners of one of Korea’s top corporations, you seem to have everything at your fingertips—a glamorous life of luxury, an enviable social circle, and endless opportunities.

To the outside world, you’re the quintessential rich girl: impeccably stylish, effortlessly popular, and seemingly flawless. Yet beneath this polished veneer lies a different reality. Despite your privileged upbringing, you’re kind-hearted, fiercely intelligent, and deeply dedicated to everything you do. Your friend group, including Jake, Jay, Heeseung, Sunoo, Niki, Jungwon, Yuna, and Karina, forms a close-knit circle that navigates the pressures of their world together.

But there’s always been one glaring exception: Park Sunghoon. The feud between the two of you is infamous, an unspoken tension that pulses beneath the surface of your otherwise harmonious friendships. No one really knows how it started, and no one seems to care enough to unravel it. Instead, everyone just tolerates your constant bickering.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The lunch table is alive with conversation, the usual chatter amplified by the excitement of the latest gossip. Karina sits comfortably beside Heeseung, leaning into him with an easy confidence that only she can pull off. She’s in the middle of talking about her parents’ latest venture—something about opening another resort somewhere exotic—when she casually drops the bomb.

“So, they’re gone for the whole weekend,” she says, her voice loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. “And you know what that means…”

Jake perks up immediately, his eyes bright. “Party?”

Karina grins. “Obviously. Saturday night, my place. No theme this time, just show up and bring your best energy.”

Yuna claps her hands in excitement. “Finally! It’s been forever since the last one. I was starting to forget what a real party looks like.”

Jay laughs. “As if you’d ever forget. You practically live for these things.”

Yuna sticks her tongue out at him, but her smile doesn’t waver. “Guilty as charged.”

Heeseung wraps an arm around Karina’s shoulders, looking amused. “You’re not worried about your parents finding out?”

She rolls her eyes. “Please, they won’t even notice. And even if they do, what’s the worst that could happen? They’ll just buy me something to make up for being gone.”

“Must be nice,” Niki mutters, leaning back in his chair.

Sunoo nudges him with a grin. “Oh, come on, don’t act like you’re not excited. You were the first one to ask about the music last time.”

Niki shrugs, but he can’t hide his smile. “Yeah, well, only if it’s not Sunghoon’s terrible playlist again.”

You glance across the table, catching Sunghoon’s eye. He’s lounging back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “My playlist was fine, thank you very much,” he retorts. “It’s not my fault you have no taste.”

You snort. “Please, Sunghoon, your taste in music is as bad as your taste in everything else.”

He looks over at you, eyebrow raised. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Nothing, just that your definition of ‘good’ is highly questionable.”

He chuckles, the sound low and irritatingly smug. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Karina cuts in, sensing the rising tension. “Alright, let’s not turn this into another one of your little spats. Save it for the party, okay?”

Sunghoon smirks, still looking at you. “Looking forward to it already.”

You roll your eyes but can’t resist shooting back, “Don’t get too excited, I might just ignore you all night.”

“Oh, the horror,” he replies, his voice dripping with mock terror. “How will I ever survive?”

Jay laughs, nudging Jake. “You know, one day they might actually get along.”

Jake shakes his head, grinning. “Nah, where’s the fun in that?”

Karina steers the conversation back to the party details, running through a list of essentials while Heeseung nods along, offering suggestions. “Invite whoever you want,” she says, “oh except luci, last time I caught her giving mark head in my parents bedroom, I haven’t been able to go in there since.”

You laugh and nod in agreement, trying not to notice how Sunghoon is still watching you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you wonder what’s going through his head, but then you push the thought away. Whatever it is, it’s probably nothing you need to worry about.

Karina claps her hands, bringing the attention back to her. “So, everyone’s in?”

There’s a chorus of agreement, and the table erupts into a mix of laughter and excited chatter as plans start to form. You glance over at Sunghoon one more time, catching his eye for a brief second before looking away. This party is already shaping up to be interesting… and you have a feeling that’s an understatement.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The lunch buzz still lingers in your ears as the group makes its way back across the pristine campus grounds. The sunlight reflects off the sleek, modern architecture of the school’s main building, and you can’t help but admire the way everything here seems to sparkle—like even the bricks and mortar are aware of the school's prestige.

You find yourself walking beside Karina, who’s still chatting excitedly about the party, while Heeseung stays close, throwing in a comment or two. Yuna and Sunoo are a few steps ahead, their heads bent together as they giggle over something on Sunoo’s phone. You catch Jake and Jay trailing behind, still debating something about sports cars or the best summer destinations.

Just as you’re about to reach the entrance, you feel a presence beside you. You don’t need to turn your head to know who it is; Sunghoon always manages to sidle up to you when you least expect it.

“What, are you following me now?” you ask, not breaking your stride.

He chuckles. “Oh, please. Don’t flatter yourself. It just so happens our lockers are in the same direction.”

“Right,” you drawl, rolling your eyes. “Like you don’t go out of your way to annoy me.”

He glances at you, smirk still firmly in place. “Maybe I just like seeing you get all riled up. It’s entertaining.”

You shoot him a glare, but before you can fire back a retort, the group reaches the main hallway. The chatter from the student body fills the air, a mix of excitement and post-lunch drowsiness. The smell of expensive cologne and designer perfumes lingers in the air, an unmistakable signature of the school’s elite.

Karina stops at her locker, Heeseung leaning against it with a casual arm draped over her shoulder. She turns to you, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “So, you’re coming early on Saturday, right? I need a hand setting things up.”

You nod, grateful for the distraction from Sunghoon. “Of course. I’ll be there.”

“Great!” She beams. “And maybe you can help me make sure everything stays under control. You know how things can get with this crowd.”

Heeseung laughs softly. “Good luck with that. I don’t think anyone’s ever managed to keep Sunoo and Niki under control for more than five minutes.”

As if on cue, Sunoo pops up beside you with a grin. “I heard that, Heeseung! I’m an angel, thank you very much.”

Niki appears at his side, raising an eyebrow. “An angel of chaos, maybe.”

The group laughs, and you feel the tension in your shoulders ease. It’s moments like these that make all the bickering and drama feel worth it.

But then, just as you’re about to make another comment, Sunghoon’s voice cuts through the noise. “So, Y/N,” he says casually, “what are you going to wear to the party? Let me guess… something that screams ‘trying too hard’?”

You whip your head around, narrowing your eyes at him. “And what are you planning on wearing, Sunghoon? Something that screams ‘I own everything but a personality’?”

There’s a collective gasp from your friends, followed by a chorus of laughter. Sunghoon raises his eyebrows, feigning a look of hurt. “Ouch, that one actually stung a little. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

You cross your arms, feeling a triumphant smile tug at your lips. “I’ve got plenty more where that came from. Try me.”

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice just enough that only you can hear. “Maybe I will,” he says, his eyes flicking over you in a way that makes your pulse quicken. “But you’re going to have to do better than that if you want to get under my skin.”

You’re about to retort when a voice interrupts. “Can we get through one day without you two turning everything into a competition?” Jay sighs, looking exasperated. “Seriously, it’s exhausting just watching you.”

Jake nods in agreement, though he’s grinning. “You guys need to find a new hobby. Preferably one that doesn’t involve verbal sparring in the middle of the hallway.”

You shrug, unable to resist the urge to keep poking at Sunghoon. “I’m open to suggestions, but I doubt Sunghoon has any better ideas.”

Sunghoon leans back, crossing his arms with a playful smile. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of ideas. But I think you’d be too scared to try them.”

Before you can respond, the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. Karina groans. “Ugh, saved by the bell. I guess we’ll have to pick this up later.”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

As everyone starts to disperse to their respective classes, Sunghoon gives you one last look, a challenge in his eyes. “Don’t worry, Y/N,” he says smoothly. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is beating just a little faster. You can’t help but wonder what exactly he’s planning… and why a part of you is actually looking forward to finding out.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The day of the party arrives with a crisp, clear sky and a hint of excitement that seems to permeate every corner of the city. You wake up early, feeling a mix of anticipation and nervous energy. Karina had texted you the night before, reminding you to come over in the afternoon to help set up for the party. You agreed eagerly, knowing that any opportunity to help would give you something to focus on and take your mind off the strange tension building between you and Sunghoon.

When you arrive at Karina’s mansion, the house is buzzing with activity. Karina’s housekeeper greets you at the door with a warm smile, directing you to the large, open-plan living area where Karina is already busy coordinating the decorations with a small army of helpers. The space is being transformed into a glamorous party venue with twinkling lights, elegant table settings, and a dance floor that looks like it’s straight out of a high-end club.

Karina spots you as soon as you walk in, her face lighting up with relief and excitement. “Y/N! Perfect timing. I’m so glad you’re here. We could use an extra pair of hands.”

You smile, rolling up your sleeves. “What can I do to help?”

Karina hands you a stack of neatly folded napkins and points towards a table covered with party favors. “Start by setting these up on the tables. I want everything to look perfect tonight.”

You get to work, organizing napkins and arranging snack trays, chatting with Karina about the last-minute details. The hours fly by as you work alongside her, the room gradually coming together into a setting that is unmistakably Karina’s style—classy, sophisticated, and just a bit over the top.

As the afternoon drifts into evening, Karina claps her hands and gathers you for a brief break. “Alright, it’s time for a quick change. You’ve been working so hard, and I want you to look as fabulous as the rest of the evening.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-teasing. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Karina waves her hand dismissively. “you don’t want me to answer that. cmon you’re hot, why not show off a little?”

Before you can protest, Karina ushers you into her bedroom and pulls out a sleek, little black dress from her closet. The dress is short and simple with a cut that accentuates your figure without being too revealing.

“Put this on,” Karina insists, handing you the dress. “Trust me, you’ll look amazing. And don’t worry about the hair and makeup; I’ve got that covered too.”

You change quickly, admiring the way the dress fits and the way it makes you feel more confident and glamorous. When you step out of the room, Karina is waiting with a professional-looking makeup kit and a few hair tools.

As she works on your hair and makeup, she chatters away, filling the room with her usual upbeat energy. “you look sexy”

You smile at her reflection in the mirror. “Thanks, Karina. You don’t think it’s a bit much? It’s definitely more out there than I usually go for”.

Karina beams, finishing up with a final touch of lipstick. “babe there’s no such thing as too much. And who knows, maybe you’ll catch someone eye tonight,” she tells you with a wink.

With a laugh and a final look at yourself in the mirror, you feel a surge of excitement. The dress feels perfect, and the makeup and hair make you look polished and ready for the night. As you head back downstairs, you catch sight of Karina’s smile of approval, and you can’t help but feel a bit more confident about the evening ahead.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The music starts pumping through the walls as you and Karina make your way back downstairs. The final touches have been set, and the room looks like a scene straight out of a teen movie: fairy lights strung up in every corner, a couple of disco balls catching the light just right, and a dance floor that practically begs people to let loose. Karina surveys everything with a grin that stretches from ear to ear.

“See?” she says, nudging you with her elbow. “This is why I always go all out.”

You chuckle, glancing around. “Okay, okay, you were right. This does look kind of amazing.”

The doorbell rings, and Karina practically bounces on her toes. “That must be the first guests! Come on, we have to greet everyone in style.”

The two of you rush to the front door, and soon enough, your friends start streaming in. Sunoo is the first to arrive, with Niki and Jungwon right behind him. They all look ready to have the best night ever, and Sunoo immediately zeroes in on you, his eyes going wide.

“Oh. My. God. Y/N!” Sunoo exclaims dramatically, clutching his chest. “Look at you in that little black dress! Who is she?!”

You roll your eyes, fighting back a grin. “Alright, Sunoo, calm down. It’s just a dress.”

“It’s not just a dress,” Niki interjects with a grin. “It’s the dress. Who are you trying to impress tonight?”

Jungwon nudges Niki. “Yeah, spill. Is there someone you’re hoping to catch the eye of?”

You smirk, crossing your arms. “Oh, please, like I’d tell you guys even if there was.”

More of your friends arrive, and soon the room is buzzing with chatter and laughter. Jake and Jay show up not long after, both of them effortlessly cool as always. Jay immediately gets to work DJ-ing from his phone, while Jake heads to the makeshift bar, already concocting a round of mixed drinks.

Then, just as you start to relax, you see him—Park Sunghoon. He steps in, looking annoyingly good in a casual black button-down and jeans. His eyes scan the room until they find you. For a split second, he looks almost surprised, but then his trademark smirk appears.

“Well, well,” Sunghoon says as he strolls over to you, hands casually shoved into his pockets. “Look who decided to play dress-up. You got a hot date tonight or something?”

You scoff, giving him a look. “Oh, please, Sunghoon. Unlike you, I don’t have to try so hard to impress everyone.”

Sunghoon chuckles, leaning in just slightly. “Right. Because you just show up looking like that for fun?”

Before you can shoot back a retort, Karina swoops in, looping her arm through yours. “Hey, Sunghoon, quit being a troll. Y/N looks amazing, and you know it. Now go get a drink and try to be nice for once!”

He holds up his hands, his grin widening. “Alright, alright, I’ll behave... for now.”

You watch as he saunters off to join Jake at the bar, and Karina gives you a knowing look. “Don’t let him get under your skin tonight, okay?”

You nod, trying to brush it off, even though you’re still buzzing from his teasing. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The party is in full swing now—music thumping, people laughing, and the lights twinkling overhead like stars. You find yourself swept up in the fun, moving from one conversation to the next, the earlier tension with Sunghoon momentarily forgotten. You’re by the snack table, popping a few chips into your mouth when Haechan sidles up next to you with his signature grin.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says smoothly, leaning in a little closer than necessary. “Looking good tonight. That dress is seriously working for you.”

You smile at him, amused by his blatant flirting. “Thanks, Haechan. You’re not looking too bad yourself,” you reply, playing along. He’s always been a harmless flirt, and you don’t mind the attention tonight.

He grins wider, clearly pleased. “I try. But seriously, I can’t believe I’m just now noticing how stunning you are. Were you hiding this whole time or just waiting for the perfect moment to make your grand entrance?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, you know me. Always dramatic,” you joke, and he chuckles, leaning in a bit more.

“You’re full of surprises, Y/N. Makes me want to know you better,” he says, his voice dropping slightly, and you can’t help but laugh at his over-the-top delivery.

What you don’t notice is that from across the room, Sunghoon has been watching the entire interaction with a growing frown. He’s leaning against a wall, a drink in hand, his eyes narrowing as he watches Haechan lean closer to you, flashing that charming smile. His jaw tightens, and his grip on the cup becomes visibly tighter.

Heeseung, who’s been standing beside him, follows his line of sight and notices the tense look on his friend’s face. A knowing grin spreads across Heeseung’s lips as he leans over to Sunghoon, nudging him with his elbow.

“Someone looks like they’ve got their feathers ruffled,” Heeseung teases, keeping his voice low so only Sunghoon can hear.

Sunghoon scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” Heeseung laughs. “That’s why you’ve been glaring at Haechan like you’re ready to knock that grin off his face.”

Sunghoon doesn’t respond right away, but his eyes remain fixed on you and Haechan. Heeseung watches with amusement, clearly enjoying the show.

“Just admit it, man,” Heeseung continues, his tone light. “You’re jealous.”

Sunghoon finally looks away from you, giving Heeseung a dismissive look. “I’m not jealous. I just don’t like seeing him act like a fool.”

Heeseung snorts. “Right. Because you’re so worried about Haechan embarrassing himself.” He claps a hand on Sunghoon’s shoulder. “Come on, dude, just go talk to her. Or are you afraid she’ll turn you down?”

Sunghoon shoots him a glare. “Shut up, Heeseung.”

Heeseung just laughs harder, clearly unbothered by Sunghoon’s mood. “Alright, whatever you say. But just so you know, glaring at Haechan isn’t going to do anything except make you look more obvious.”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer, but Heeseung’s words seem to hit a nerve. He turns his attention back to you, his expression unreadable, though there’s still a flicker of something in his eyes—something more than just casual interest.

Meanwhile, you’re still chatting with Haechan, completely unaware of the little drama unfolding across the room. But you can’t shake the feeling that someone’s watching you, and when you finally glance up, your eyes meet Sunghoon’s for just a second. He quickly looks away, and you can’t help but wonder what that was all about.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The party continues to buzz around you, but after a while, the noise and energy start to feel a bit overwhelming. You decide you need a break, a moment to yourself away from the chaos. Without saying anything, you slip out of the crowded living room and head toward the balcony, where the air is cooler and the music is just a muffled hum in the background.

You push open the glass doors and step outside, letting the crisp night air hit your face. It’s a welcome change from the warmth inside. You lean against the railing, taking a deep breath, trying to clear your mind. The stars are faint above the city lights, and you can hear distant sounds of traffic, a reminder of the world continuing outside this little bubble of a party.

You close your eyes for a moment, just enjoying the quiet. But then, you hear the soft sound of footsteps behind you. You turn, half-expecting to see Karina or maybe Sunoo, but your heart skips a beat when you see Sunghoon stepping out onto the balcony.

“What do you want, Sunghoon?” you sigh, not bothering to hide your annoyance.

“I could ask you the same thing” he replies, his voice closer than you expected. You feel the warmth of his body behind you, jus inches away. “Running away from the party?”

”Hardly.” You glance over your shoulder at him. “Just needed a break from all the fakes and liars inside.”

His lips curl into that familiar, infuriating smirk. “And here I thought you thrived on that type of thing. Who knew Y/N had limits?”

You roll tour eyes, turning back to the view. “Yeah, well, believe it or not I do. But you wouldn’t know anything, would you?”

Sunghoon steps closer, his breath brushing against your ear, sending an unwanted shiver down your spine. You feel a rush of heat flood your cheeks and something else you refuse to acknowledge. “You don’t know anything about me, Sunghoon. And id keep it that way if I were you.”

He laughs, a deep, rich sound that makes your skin prickle. “I think you like it when I get under your skin. Why else do you always react like this?” You scoff, turning to face him, only then realizing how close he actually was. “Maybe i’m just tired of you acting like you’re gods gift to the world. newsflash: you’re not.”

His grin widens, and he takes another step closer, invading you’re space entirely as if he wasn’t already to begin with. “Admit it.” he says, his voice dropping lower. “You like our little games. You like the way I push your buttons.”

Your heart is pounding now, and you hate that he’s right, that there’s something about him that gets to you in a way no one else does.But you refuse to five him the satisfaction of knowing it. “In your dreams,” you snap, though the breathlessness in your voice betrays you.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing your arm, and you feel a jolt of heat at the contact. “Is that so?” he whispers, his lips dangerously close to yours now, his eyes dark with challenge. “Because I think you’re lying. I think you want this as much as I do.”

Your breath hitches, and for a moment, you’re frozen, caught in his gaze. The intensity in his eyes makes your pulse race, a mix of anger and undeniable attraction. He’s so close now that you can feel his breath your lips, and before you can stop yourself, you grab his shirt, pulling him the last few inches towards you.

“Maybe I just want to shut you up,” you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper. “Then do it,” he taunts, his lips brushing against yours, almost but not quite a kiss. It’s all the encouragement you need. You close the distance, your mouth crashing against his. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer, and you press against him, fueled by a mix of anger and desire.

The kiss is intense, a battle of wills as much as it is anything else. His lips are firm, demanding, and you meet him with equal force, neither of you willing to give an inch. Your hands move up to his hair, tugging slightly and he groans against your mouth, deepening the kiss.

You’re lost in it. Lost in him, every nerve in your body alight with sensation. His hands slide up your back, his touch sending sparks through you, and you hate how much you crave it, hate how much you want him despite everything.

You’re breathless when you finally pull back, your heart hammering against your ribs. Sunghoon’s lips are parted, his breaths coming in ragged, and his eyes are dark with something dangerous—something you know you shouldn’t be entertaining.

His hand is still on your waist, his thumb brushing the exposed skin just beneath the hem of your shirt, and you swear every nerve in your body is on fire. He leans in close, his lips grazing your ear, and his voice comes out in a low, almost pleading murmur. “Come back to my place.”

It isn’t a question, but there’s something in his tone that sends a shiver down your spine, a combination of hunger and desperation that mirrors what’s coursing through your veins. For a moment, you’re tempted—so, so tempted to just say yes and give in to whatever this is. But logic fights its way to the surface, and you pull back just enough to meet his gaze.

“Are you serious?” you ask, your voice wavering more than you’d like.

His expression doesn’t falter, his eyes locked onto yours. “Dead serious.” He swallows, his grip on your waist tightening, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away. “I don’t want this to end here.”

You hesitate, your mind racing. This is Sunghoon—Park Sunghoon—the guy you’ve spent so long arguing with, glaring at across rooms, doing everything in your power to avoid. But there’s something different about the way he’s looking at you now, something raw and real that makes it hard to think clearly.

“I don’t know,” you say, trying to sound firm, though your resolve is crumbling by the second. “I mean… this is crazy.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, his voice still low, still laced with that edge of desperation. “But I think you like crazy.” His lips curl into a half-smile, that familiar cockiness tempered with something else, something softer.

You bite your lip, weighing your options, feeling the tension between you both—hot, magnetic, impossible to ignore. “This is a bad idea,” you whisper, though even you can hear the lack of conviction in your words.

Sunghoon steps closer, closing the distance again, his forehead almost touching yours. “Probably the worst,” he says, his breath hot against your skin. “But if you don’t say yes, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, can feel how fast it’s racing, and you know he means it. Part of you is screaming to walk away, to leave now before you make a mistake, but there’s another part—a louder, more reckless part—that’s screaming for you to stay, to see where this goes.

“Just one night,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours again, barely a kiss, just enough to make you shiver. “No strings, no expectations. Just… us.”

You close your eyes, fighting against every instinct telling you to run. But when you open them again, his gaze is still locked onto yours, and you can’t deny the heat pooling in your stomach, the way your skin tingles with every touch.

“Fine,” you breathe, barely louder than a whisper. “One night.”

His grin is immediate, but there’s relief in it too, and he closes the distance, pressing his lips to yours again, this time harder, more insistent. “Let’s get out of here,” he says against your mouth, his hand sliding to intertwine with yours, and you know there’s no going back now.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You manage to sneak past your friends to leave Karina’s mansion, the partygoers and scattered distractions making it all that more simple.

The drive is quiet, both of you caught in your own thoughts. The city passes by in a blur of neon signs and headlights, the streets quieter than they were earlier. You steal a glance at him, watching the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers tap against the wheel like he’s counting down the seconds.

Sunghoon pulls up to his mansion, its sprawling, modern architecture framed by towering trees and high walls that ensure absolute privacy. The wide driveway curves up to the grand entrance, where soft lights cast a warm glow over the marble steps and tall double doors. You glance around, taking in the sheer size of the place—not because it surprises you, but because you’ve never been here before.

Your own family’s estate is nothing to scoff at, but there’s a distinct style to his home—something sleek and almost understated, despite its size. You tilt your head slightly, noticing the details: the way the garden is meticulously maintained, the sharp lines of the building softened by the greenery that surrounds it. It’s impressive, in a way that’s different from what you’re used to.

He takes your hand to lead you inside, you follow him down the dimly lit corridor, decorated with family pictures and modern art that costs a fortune. He pauses at his bedroom door, his hand still holding yours, and turns to look at you one more time. “Last chance to change your mind,” he murmurs, though his thumb strokes the back of your hand, a comforting gesture.

You take a deep breath, then shake your head. “I’m not changing my mind.”

A small smile tugs at his lips. “Good,” he whispers, unlocking the door and pushing it open.

You step inside, and he follows, closing the door behind you. The space is dimly lit, warm, and there’s an unexpected coziness to it—minimalistic but comfortable. The air feels thick with everything unspoken between you.

Sunghoon turns to you, his gaze intense, and he steps closer, his hand moving up to your face, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he admits quietly, his voice almost a growl.

Your breath catches, and you feel the heat rush to your face. “Then stop talking,” you murmur, your own voice breathless.

His lips are on yours in an instant, capturing your mouth in a kiss that’s all-consuming, filled with all the tension, the want, the frustration that’s been building for so long. You kiss him back just as fiercely, hands sliding up his chest, feeling his heartbeat pounding beneath your palms.

Sunghoon's hands roamed over your body, squeezing your tits. You let out a small involuntary moan, a grunt leaving him immediately after. His lips move down to your next, trailing up and down before reaching that sweet spot right behind your ear.

It all feels to fucking good, your panties sticking to your core. He moves to sit on the edge of his bed, pulling you into his lap before catching your lips once again. His growing hardness is poking at you. “You look so fucking sexy in this little dress,” He tells you in a low tone that makes you clench around nothing, the ache between your legs growing. You start grinding on him, his hands grabbing your ass, encouraging you to keep grinding against his clothed length. “That’s it baby, grind on me, keep rubbing that pretty pussy over my cock.”

Your head is thrown back, lip in between your teeth, his words encouraging your quickening movements. “Need you so bad, Hoon,” you manage to get out.

“Yeah baby? tell me what you need.” He tells you. It’s almost embarrassing how much you wanted him. “Need your cock.” Without another word you feel his hands back on your ass, lifting you up and throwing you down on his bed. He looks up at you with mischievious eyes, hovering over you as his hands roam down the sides of your thighs to them hem of your dress. “Can i take this off?” he asks, caressing the soft, exposed skin there.

Eagerly, you nod quickly, reaching for the hem to help him pull it up and over your head. Luckily you opted for a pair of black lacy panties and opposed to your more comfortable ones. He audibly sighs and your exposed figure, “You’re so beautiful,” He tells you, his fingers working to slide your panties down your legs and tossing them to the side, revealing just how much you wanted him.

“Shit baby you’re so wet.” He leans down, placing soft, wet kisses just below your navel, dangerously close to where you wanted him most. “Hoon please,” you murmur out. He straightens out, unbuckling his belt to pull down his pants and boxers all in one go. While he wasn’t remarkably long, he made up for it in girth. You lick your lips at the sight, anticipation and heat pooling.

He pumps himself a couple times before he’s lining himself up with your entrance. He takes his time, making sure to smear your slick between your clit and his length. You feel his tip parting your folds, your breath hitching in your throat. “You ready?” his eyes meet yours for assurance. No words come out your mouth, all you do is nod.

He enters you carefully, a strong contrast from his words earlier in the night. The last thing he wants is to rush, just because of how unpatient and horny he is. You close your eyes, holding in the gasp that threatens to escape your lips. “Relax baby, I got you.”

“I know,” you breathe out. The sudden stretch has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. The burn quickly turning into a delicious one. “That’s it,” he praises you continuing to slide in until he’s nestled completely between your walls. “You take me so well,” he grunts, his length twitching inside of you.

“Fuck me, Hoon” you murmur, your walls clench around him, throwing his head back at the feeling. Before you know it he’s pulling out of you, only to smack his hips back against yours. It knocks all the oxygen out your lungs, leaving you breathless as he repeats the same action over and over again. “Fuck,” you breathe out, focusing on how good he looks above you.

You’re in a complete feeling of euphoria. Sunghoon’s skills topping those of the few guys you’ve slept with before. In that moment, all the bickering and years of back and forth leave your mind completely. The only thing closing your mind is how good him of all people is making you feel.

“Hoon… faster,” you let out, his hips snapping in a faster pace on command. Your back arches off the bed, hands grasping the sheets in small fists. He notices and reaches for them to thread his fingers through yours, pinning them above your head. “You like that baby? love how good you feel… fuck you’re so tight. Gonna make you cum so hard.”

“I’m so c-close, fuck,” you breathe out. His thrusts become messier and you know he’s close. “Cum on my cock pretty,” he grunts, hands letting go of yours to grip your hips. Clenching around him, it takes a few for pumps before you’re both coming undone. His cock twitching inside you as he fucks his cum into you.

He drops his sweaty forehead against your shoulder, quick, deep breaths meeting your skin and he comes down from his high. It takes you both a while before your breathing steadys. “You good?,” he asks you, settling on the bed beside you. “mhm,” is all you say in response, unsure as to where this leaves your relationship. It all felt to good to ignore. “Are you good?” you ask him after a moment of silence. “Better than I have in a long time.”

You’re not sure when you fall asleep. The exhaustion taking over you all at once.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The morning light filters softly through the heavy curtains, casting a gentle glow across the room. You wake to the sound of birds chirping outside, their songs a peaceful contrast to the intensity of the night before. The bed is warm, and you’re nestled comfortably under the covers, Sunghoon’s arm draped over you.

You shift slightly, the movement causing Sunghoon to stir beside you. He mumbles something incoherent, tightening his hold on you before settling back into a deeper sleep. You take a moment to just lie there, letting yourself absorb the strange, surreal comfort of the situation. There’s an odd serenity in the room, a calm that feels almost unreal given the whirlwind of emotions that led you here.

As you slowly become more aware, you gently untangle yourself from his embrace, careful not to wake him. You sit up and stretch, glancing around at the elegant room that’s now your temporary sanctuary. The soft morning light highlights the sleek lines and modern decor, giving the space an almost ethereal quality.

You slide out of bed and make your way to the bathroom, feeling a little self-conscious but determined to gather yourself. You glance at yourself in the mirror, trying to process the whirlwind of the past night. The evidence of sleep lingers in your eyes, and you smooth your hair, mentally preparing yourself for whatever comes next.

When you return to the bedroom, Sunghoon is still asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. You take a moment to just watch him, the vulnerability in his expression softened by sleep. There’s a part of you that feels a pang of something—softness, maybe even affection—though you’re still trying to fully understand what it all means.

Deciding not to linger too long, you quietly gather your things and start to get dressed. You’re pulling on your clothes when you hear a rustling behind you. You turn to find Sunghoon blinking awake, his gaze immediately locking on you with a sleepy, yet intense look.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.

You smile softly, trying to keep things light despite the previous night's intensity. “Morning. I didn’t want to wake you.”

He stretches lazily, a smirk forming on his lips. “And here I was thinking you’d sneak out before I even woke up. Not very considerate of you, you know.”

You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize I was supposed to tiptoe around your mansion.”

He chuckles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Yeah, well, you should be lucky you’re not being kicked out for your unexpected visit.”

You roll your eyes, pulling on your shirt. “Oh, please. It’s not like I forced my way in. You made it pretty clear you wanted me here.”

His smirk widens. “True. And now I’m faced with the charming aftermath of our little escapade. How do you intend to handle that?”

You shrug, trying to keep your tone casual. “I think we both know this doesn’t exactly change things. We still don’t like each other. This was… a one-off.”

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “A one-off? That’s what we’re calling it now? What happened to all that intense ‘hate’ from last night?”

You narrow your eyes at him, feeling a bit defensive. “It’s complicated. We both know that. I’m just here to sort myself out.”

He stands up, stretching with a yawn. “Well, I suppose if you’re done with the morning-after drama, I should at least make you breakfast.”

You look at him skeptically. “Breakfast? You’re really pulling out the stops now?”

He gives you a mockingly hurt look. “Don’t sound so surprised. Even enemies deserve to be fed after a night like that.”

You smirk, shaking your head. “Fine. Breakfast it is. But don’t think this means I’m sticking around for a whole lot of chit-chat.”

He grins, clearly pleased with your response. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Just a quick meal and then you can be on your way.”

As he leads you to the kitchen, you both fall into a familiar rhythm, trading barbs and jabs that feel almost comfortable in their own way. The awkwardness of the night before is still there, but it’s tempered by the humor and banter that defines your relationship.

In the kitchen, Sunghoon starts pulling out ingredients, his movements confident and efficient. You watch him, feeling a strange mix of irritation and appreciation. Despite everything, there’s something almost endearing about the way he’s trying to play the gracious host.

“So, what’s the plan after breakfast?” you ask, grabbing a coffee cup and filling it. “Are we going to pretend like nothing happened, or do you have some other grand gesture in mind?”

He looks over at you with a smirk. “Maybe I’ll just enjoy the novelty of seeing you eat my food. Consider it a small victory.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a genuine smile on your lips. “Enjoy it while it lasts. I’m not here for long.”

He chuckles, placing a plate of food in front of you. “Don’t worry, I won’t be offended if you leave right after. I’m sure we’ll find new ways to annoy each other soon enough.”

You take a bite of the breakfast, shaking your head in mock exasperation. “I’ll hold you to that.”

As you eat, the tension from the night before begins to ease, replaced by the familiar dynamic of your interactions. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s familiar—a small reminder that despite everything, some things never really change.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The bell rings, signaling the end of the period, you gather your things and stand up, eager to leave the classroom and escape the strange tension that’s been hanging between you and Sunghoon all day. You’re heading toward the door when you feel a light tap on your shoulder. You turn around to find Sunghoon standing close, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Can I help you?” you ask, trying to keep your tone neutral.

Sunghoon leans in, his face just inches from yours. His breath is warm against your ear, and you can feel his proximity even though you try to back away slightly. “You look cute today,” he whispers, his voice low and deliberately teasing.

You freeze for a moment, your heart skipping a beat as his words sink in. You’re taken aback by the unexpected comment, feeling a rush of irritation mixed with something you can’t quite define. You quickly compose yourself, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Seriously?” you hiss, trying to keep your voice low so that no one else hears. “Now you’re trying to play nice? How pathetic.”

Sunghoon pulls back slightly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m just making an observation,” he says innocently, though the amusement in his eyes betrays him.

You roll your eyes, your frustration evident. “Yeah, well, save it for someone who actually cares. I’m not in the mood for your games.”

As you turn and walk toward the door, you hear Sunghoon’s laughter behind you, light and mocking. You try to ignore the heat rising in your cheeks as you make your way out of the classroom, determined not to let him get under your skin. Despite your efforts to stay composed, his words linger in your mind, adding to the awkwardness and confusion of the day.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Lunch at school is a lively affair, with the cafeteria buzzing with the chatter of students and the clatter of trays. You and your friends—Yuna, Karina, and the rest—settle into your usual spot at the table. Sunghoon and his group are seated across from you, and you can feel his gaze lingering on you, even as you try to focus on the conversation with your friends.

Karina is mid-sentence, animatedly discussing the latest school gossip when Sunghoon's voice cuts through. “Oh, come on, Y/N. You can't actually believe that nonsense.”

You glance up, catching Sunghoon’s eyes. He’s smirking, clearly enjoying the opportunity to poke at you. “And what’s so ridiculous about it?” you retort, trying to keep your voice steady despite the irritation brewing inside you.

“Seriously?” Sunghoon’s grin widens. “It’s just a bunch of exaggerated stories. You’ve always had a knack for falling for that kind of thing.”

You roll your eyes, feeling a familiar annoyance bubbling up. “Says the guy who’s always spouting off about how everything’s ‘not worth his time.’”

Sunghoon leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “At least I don’t get caught up in every little bit of drama that comes my way.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “I’m not the one who spends half his day looking for ways to pick fights. Maybe if you weren’t so obsessed with making everything a competition, you’d see things more clearly.”

Yuna and Karina exchange glances, trying to stifle their laughter as the two of you go back and forth. Karina nudges you playfully. “Looks like you two are back to your old routine.”

You shoot her a sidelong glance, annoyed but unable to hide a small smile. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Meanwhile, Sunghoon’s eyes are fixed on you, his smirk never fading. Every time you catch him looking, you feel a mix of frustration and unease. His gaze is unrelenting, and despite your best efforts to ignore it, you can’t help but feel self-conscious.

“What are you staring at?” you snap, catching him in the act.

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, his expression innocent. “Just observing. Is that a problem?”

You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms. “Maybe if you had something better to do than harass me, you wouldn’t have to be so nosy.”

He chuckles, leaning forward with a teasing glint in his eyes. “Maybe I just enjoy watching you get all riled up. It’s entertaining.”

You glare at him, feeling your irritation spike. “Yeah, well, it’s not exactly a compliment.”

Sunghoon shrugs, still smirking. “Suit yourself.”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

After lunch, you head to your next class with a sense of relief, hoping to escape the tension of the cafeteria. As you settle into your seat, the classroom buzzes with the usual pre-class chatter. You glance around, hoping to avoid any more interactions with Sunghoon, but he’s in the same class, sitting a few rows behind you.

The teacher arrives, and the room quiets down as the lesson begins. You try to focus on the lecture, but the lingering effects of the lunchtime bickering keep your thoughts scattered. Every now and then, you can feel Sunghoon’s eyes on you, though you avoid turning around to confirm it.

Halfway through the class, you feel a small piece of paper land softly on your desk. You glance down to find a note with neat handwriting:

*“Can we at least pretend to be civil? I promise I’m not plotting your demise.”*

You roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. You scribble a quick reply:

“Why start now? It’s more fun to keep you on your toes.”

You fold the note and toss it back over your shoulder, hoping it will reach him without drawing too much attention. A few moments later, you see Sunghoon’s hand reach forward to grab it, his expression unreadable.

The rest of the class proceeds in a blur of lectures and notes. The occasional glances you and Sunghoon exchange are filled with unspoken tension, but you both manage to keep your interactions to a minimum.

At the end of your lecture, you pack up your things and make your way out of the classroom. You’re heading down the hall when you hear Sunghoon’s voice behind you.

“Hey, wait up.”

You stop, turning to see him catching up with you. He’s wearing a casual expression, though there’s a hint of seriousness in his eyes.

“Seriously? What now?” you ask, trying to keep your tone even.

Sunghoon’s gaze lingers on you, and he seems to consider his next words carefully. “So, I was thinking… why don’t you come over to my place later?”

You raise an eyebrow, puzzled. “For what? We already had our… whatever that was.”

Sunghoon gives you a knowing look, his smirk widening. “Come on, you know you’re curious. Besides, you know you want me.”

You feel a rush of heat at his words, and you try to maintain your composure. “And what happened to it being a one-night thing? Are you trying to make this a regular thing now?”

Sunghoon’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I just want to spend more time with you. Either way, I think you’re interested.”

You hesitate, feeling the pull of his words. The desire that was ignited the night before is still burning strong, and you find yourself tempted despite your better judgment.

With a sigh, you give in, unable to resist the allure of what he’s offering. “Alright, fine. I’ll come over. But just to see what you have in mind.” Sunghoon’s smile broadens, clearly pleased with your decision. “Great. see you later.”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Later that night, you stand outside Sunghoon’s, house, or rather mansion. With a deep breath, you ring the doorbelll, and a moment later, Sunghoon opens the door. His eyes rake over you, and there’s that cocky familiar smirk on his face. “Youre here,” he says, stepping aside to let you in. There’s no hint of surprise, just a kind of smug statisfaction, like he knew you’d come.

“Yeah,” you reply, stepping inside “so what’s this all about?” Sunghoon doesn’t answer immediately. He just walks past you, heading into the foyer. You follow, your curiosity piqued, but you don’t miss the way his eyes flicker back to you with that same intent look. He turns around suddenly, before you can even process what’s happening, he’s closing the distance between you, leaning in like he’s about to kiss you.

“Woah wait,” you say quickly, pressing a hand against him firm chest to stop him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Sunghoon pauses, eyebrows raised, but there’s no real apology in his expression. “What do you think in doing?” he counters, his voice low, almost daring him to challenge you. You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart is racing. “I didn’t come here just to… you know.”

He smirks, leaning in just enough that you feel the warmth of his breath. “Then why did you come here?”

You hesitate, caught between wanting to play it cool and the undeniable pull you feel toward him. “Maybe I was curious.” Sunghoon chuckles, “You’re here because you want this, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand grazing your hip lightly, testing your boundaries.

You swallow hard, trying to keep your composure. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

His smirk widens. “I know enough.” He leans in again, and this time, his lips brush against your neck, a bold move that sends a jolt of heat through you. You bite your lip, figuring the urge to melt into his touch. “I didn’t say you could—“

“Then stop me,” he challenges, his voice a whisper against your skin. Your mind races every logical thought battling against the desire that’s been simmering between you since the other night. You hate how easily he gets under your skin, how is arrogance is both infuriating and strangely alluring. But instead of pushing him away, you find yourself lingering, testing the r limits just like he is.

“You’re infuriating,” you mutter, half annoyed, half breathless. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression smug but hungry. “Yet I don’t see you walking away.”

You hate that he’s right. Instead of anything else, you meet his gaze head on, feeling that dangerous spark between you flicker into something more. “Just shut up and kiss me,” you say, finally giving in, if only to wipe that smug look off his face. And he does—without hesitation, with the kind of intensity that makes your head spin. It’s heated, unrestrained, and nothing like you imagined, and yet somehow it’s exactly what you wanted.

With a frustrated sigh, you put a hand on his chest and push him back a step. “Okay, seriously, what is this?” you demand, trying to keep your tone steady. “We can’t just keep… doing this whenever we feel like it. It’s stupid.”

He raises an eyebrow, looking way too amused for your liking. “Why not? You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just… I don’t want this to get messy.”

He smirks, clearly entertained by your struggle. “Messy? You mean you don’t want people to know you like kissing me?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “I don’t like anything about you, Sunghoon. But if we’re being honest, there’s… something here, and I don’t see it going away anytime soon.”

His grin widens, and you want to slap it right off his face. “So, what? You’re proposing a deal?”

You roll your eyes. “Maybe. Friends with benefits. No strings attached, no drama, no catching feelings.”

Sunghoon chuckles, but there’s an edge to it. “Friends? I don’t think we’re even close to that.”

“Fine,” you snap, annoyed that he’s right. “Enemies with benefits then. Just… an arrangement. To get this out of our systems.”

His gaze darkens, and for a second, you think you see something flicker there, something unreadable. But then he leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. “And what makes you think I’d agree to that?”

You raise your chin, meeting his challenge head-on. “Because you want this just as much as I do. Maybe more.”

He pauses, his lips curling into a slow, wicked smile. “Okay, I’ll bite,” he says, his voice low. “But here’s the deal: we do this my way. No whining, no complaining, and you definitely don’t get to pretend you don’t want it.”

You scowl, hating how cocky he looks, how certain he is that you’ll cave. “Fine,” you bite back. “But don’t think for a second that this means I like you.”

He laughs, the sound rich and mocking. “Trust me, I’d hate it if you did.”

You feel your blood boil at his arrogance, but there’s a thrill in it too, in the way you both seem to enjoy this game. “Deal,” you snap, holding out your hand.

He takes it, but instead of shaking, he pulls you in closer, his lips just inches from yours. “Just remember,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours, “this doesn’t change anything. I still can’t stand you.”

You smirk, matching his intensity. “Right back at you.”

And before you know it, his lips are crashing against yours again, and all that frustration and anger blurs into something reckless and wild. For now, you’ll play his game, but you know this is far from over.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Over the next few weeks, the “arrangement” with Sunghoon becomes a twisted game of secrecy and tension. You find yourself sneaking glances in class, meeting him in darkened hallways between periods, and exchanging heated looks across crowded lunch tables. The two of you are constantly dancing on the edge of discovery, and it’s becoming harder to hide the intensity simmering between you.

It starts small. The accidental brush of fingers when passing by in the hallway, the way his eyes linger a little too long when you’re speaking. But then, it escalates. The stolen moments between classes turn into late-night texts and spontaneous meetings wherever you can find some privacy. Empty classrooms, deserted stairwells, even the back of the library—places where no one would think to find the two of you together. The more time passes, the harder it gets to keep up the charade.

You’re starting to notice the way his friends glance between you two, confused by the sudden silences or the shared looks you forget to hide. Jay catches you one morning when you’re walking out of the library with Sunghoon following a few steps behind, your hair slightly mussed, your lips redder than usual.

“What’s going on there?” he asks, a teasing grin spreading across his face. “You and Sunghoon plotting world domination or something?”

You laugh it off, rolling your eyes. “Please. He’s too much of an idiot for that.”

But Jay looks unconvinced, his gaze flicking back to where Sunghoon is standing, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching you with a smirk that’s all too knowing. “Sure,” Jay says, dragging out the word like he’s not buying it.

At lunch, it’s even worse. Sunghoon sits across from you, his foot nudging yours under the table. It’s subtle, but it’s enough to send a jolt up your spine. You kick him back, hard, and he just chuckles, leaning back in his chair like he’s thoroughly enjoying the game.

“What are you two whispering about?” Yuna asks, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. You’re both quick to cover it up, but it’s obvious that your friends are starting to catch on.

“Nothing,” Sunghoon says smoothly, his voice annoyingly casual. “Just telling Y/N that she looks like she needs more sleep. Those dark circles are really showing.”

Your jaw clenches, but you force a sweet smile, playing along. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll sleep just fine once I stop seeing your face every day.”

He grins, but there’s a flicker of something more heated in his eyes, something you recognize all too well. “Yeah, right.”

Karina frowns, sensing the tension that seems to hang in the air whenever you two are in the same room. “Seriously, what is up with you guys?” she asks, tilting her head.

You wave it off, laughing a little too loudly. “We’re just being our usual selves. You know how it is—can’t stand each other.”

But your friends are starting to notice the little things. The way Sunghoon’s gaze always seems to drift in your direction, the way you keep sneaking out of group study sessions with flimsy excuses, only to return looking flustered and breathless. Sunoo even catches you and Sunghoon exchanging hushed words in the corner of the hallway, too close for comfort, and he raises an eyebrow, a mischievous grin forming on his lips.

“Are you two planning a secret mission, or is there something else we should know?” he asks, his tone playful but probing.

Sunghoon just shrugs, but you can feel his eyes on you, daring you to say something. “No mission,” he replies coolly, “unless it’s trying to survive Y/N’s terrible attitude.”

You force a laugh, but the heat in your cheeks gives you away. “Yeah, well, some of us have better things to do than deal with you, Sunghoon.”

But it’s getting harder to pretend, harder to keep the fire between you from spilling over in front of everyone else. Every time he’s near, it feels like the world narrows down to just the two of you, a constant push and pull that’s impossible to ignore. The stolen kisses, the midnight texts, the moments of heated bickering that seem to blur into something more—it’s becoming too much to hide.

And it’s only a matter of time before someone figures it out.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You grip the sheets of your bed, lip caught between your teeth as sunghoon is under your duvet, tonguing your wet entrance, heat pooling in your belly, felling the intensity of your orgasm creeping up on you.

It’s all cut short when your door bursts open without warning, and Karina barges in, her voice already raised. “Y/N, I swear I’m going to lose my mind—!”

You freeze, your heart stopping in your chest. “Karina!” you squeak, quickly yanking the sheets up to your chin. “What happened to knocking?”

Karina stops mid-rant, blinking at you. “Oh, come on, like I ever knock?” she scoffs, throwing her hands up in frustration. “Anyway, you will not believe what Heeseung just did—”

She’s moving closer to the bed, and you panic, shifting slightly to keep Sunghoon hidden beneath the covers. You can feel him tense up, and his hand slips to your thigh under the sheets, pinching you playfully. You bite your lip to stifle a gasp, kneeing him as a warning.

Karina continues her rant, oblivious. “I mean, he had the nerve to ditch me for practice again, and I’m just—ugh, I needed to vent to someone who understands!”

Your mind races, desperately trying to keep her attention away from the suspicious lump between your legs. “That sounds… really frustrating,” you say, a bit too brightly. “But maybe just, you know, talk to him?”

Karina flops down on the edge of your bed, dangerously close to Sunghoon’s concealed figure. “Oh, I’ll talk to him, alright. I’m just so sick of his stupid excuses—”

Sunghoon’s fingers press into your clit under the sheets. He’s grinning, enjoying the situation far too much. You jab him again, your heart racing.

Karina glances at you, finally noticing your tense posture. “Are you okay? You’re acting weird,” she says, her brows furrowing.

You force a laugh, your voice too high. “I’m fine! Just… woke up. Didn’t expect you to burst in like that.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you care if I burst in? And why are you so… red?”

You feel the heat creeping up your neck. “Uh, just… hot in here,” you stammer, shifting to keep Sunghoon completely out of sight.

Karina looks like she’s about to press further, but then she sighs, clearly more focused on her Heeseung drama. “Whatever, I just needed to get that off my chest. He drives me insane!”

You nod quickly. “Yeah, I get it. He’s… Heeseung, you know?” Karina gives you a small smile, her frustration easing. “Thanks for listening. And seriously, you look so weird right now.”

You laugh nervously. “Yeah, just tired.”

Finally, she stands up, heading toward the door. “Alright, I’ll leave you to… whatever you were doing. I’m gonna go call him and give him a piece of my mind.”

You nod eagerly. “Good luck with that!”

As soon as she leaves, you exhale in relief, lifting the cover to eye Sunghoon, who’s still grinning like an idiot. “What?” he whispers, amused.

“What?” you repeat, incredulous. “You almost got us caught, that’s what!”

He chuckles, pulling you back down under the sheets. “Relax. She didn’t notice a thing.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is still racing from the close call. “You’re lucky,” you mutter.

Sunghoon just leans in closer, his lips brushing your cheek. “You love the thrill,” he murmurs.

And damn it, you hate that he’s right.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

It's late, the night air cool against your skin as you lean against the wall outside the school building, waiting for Sunghoon. You don't even know why you agreed to meet him here. Maybe because he seemed so insistent, or maybe because a part of you wanted to see him, even though you’d never admit it.

He arrives moments later, his footsteps heavy as he approaches. There’s a different energy about him tonight—something serious, something intense. His usual smirk is nowhere to be found, and his hands are shoved deep into his pockets. He stops in front of you, a little too close, and you have to tilt your head up to meet his eyes.

“What’s this about?” you ask, trying to sound casual, though your heart is pounding in your chest.

He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze boring into yours like he’s searching for something, something he can’t quite find. You shift on your feet, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

“Sunghoon?” you prompt, your voice wavering just slightly.

He finally speaks, his tone lower than usual. “I’ve been thinking… about us,” he says, the words almost hesitant, like he’s testing them out.

You blink, caught off guard. “Us?”

He nods, his expression serious. “Yeah, Y/N, us. You and me… whatever this is.”

You swallow hard, trying to keep your face neutral. “I thought we agreed it’s nothing,” you reply, but your voice comes out softer than you intended.

Sunghoon’s eyes narrow, frustration flashing in his gaze. “Yeah, that’s what we said,” he agrees, “but it doesn’t feel like nothing to me anymore.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you feel a lump forming in your throat. You’ve never seen him like this—so open, so exposed. “Sunghoon, I don’t know what you’re getting at,” you say carefully.

He takes a step closer, his expression more intense. “I’m saying that I’ve caught myself… thinking about you. A lot. When you’re not around, I’m wondering what you’re doing, who you’re with. I hate that it bothers me when I see you talking to other guys, and I can’t stand the idea of you being with anyone else.”

You feel a wave of panic rising in your chest. This is too much, too fast. You press your back harder against the wall as if trying to create more distance between you. “Sunghoon, this was never supposed to be serious,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I know, and I tried to keep it that way. But every time I see you, every time we’re together… I can’t help it. I don’t want to help it.”

You shake your head, refusing to let his words sink in. “You don’t mean that,” you insist, more to yourself than to him. “You’re just saying this because it’s… new or whatever. It’ll pass.”

Sunghoon’s jaw clenches, and he moves even closer, leaving barely any space between you. “No, Y/N, it won’t. I’ve tried to stop feeling this way, but I can’t. And I know you feel something too, even if you won’t admit it.”

Your pulse quickens, and you feel your resolve starting to crumble. “I don’t—” you begin, but he cuts you off.

“Stop lying,” he says firmly, his voice carrying a hint of desperation. “You’re scared, I get it. But don’t pretend like this is all just a game to you.”

You feel a flash of anger, your defenses rising. “What if it is, Sunghoon? What if I don’t want anything more than what we already have?”

His expression falters for a moment, a flicker of hurt crossing his face. “Then I guess I’ve made a mistake,” he murmurs, taking a step back.

You feel a pang in your chest, a sharp, unexpected ache. “Sunghoon…”

He shakes his head, cutting you off. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

For a second, you want to reach out, to say something, anything, to make that look on his face go away. But the fear of letting your guard down, of admitting that he might be right, keeps you silent.

He takes another step back, his expression hardening. “I won’t bother you about it again,” he says, his voice cold. “Let’s just go back to pretending like none of this ever happened.”

You nod, though you feel a tightness in your throat. “Yeah, let’s do that,” you say quietly, even though your chest aches with a feeling you don’t want to name.

Sunghoon turns and walks away, and you’re left standing there, the cool night air biting at your skin. You watch him go, feeling something inside you break just a little, and you wonder if maybe you’ve made a mistake too.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The next morning at school, everything feels heavier. The halls are crowded, but it’s like there’s a spotlight following you, and you can’t shake the feeling that everyone knows. You make your way to your locker, avoiding eye contact with anyone, especially Sunghoon.

You don’t see him at first, but you feel him—his presence looming in the periphery. It’s like he’s everywhere, watching you, and it makes your skin prickle with nerves. You busy yourself with rearranging your textbooks, trying to calm the storm inside your head.

“Hey, Y/N,” Karina chirps, appearing beside you. Her usual bright smile is there, but her eyes are curious, searching your face. “Are you okay? You seemed a little… off yesterday.”

You force a smile, gripping your locker door tighter than necessary. “Yeah, just tired, I guess.”

She studies you for a second longer, then nods. “Well, you should have come to dinner with us last night. It was a total mess, as always, but fun.”

You nod absently, not really listening. Your eyes flick over Karina’s shoulder and catch Sunghoon’s gaze across the hallway. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with an unreadable expression.

“Y/N?” Karina prompts, bringing your attention back to her. “You’re zoning out again.”

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Just a lot on my mind.”

Karina glances over her shoulder, following your line of sight. Her brow furrows slightly. “You’ve been weird around Sunghoon lately,” she remarks. “Did something happen?”

Your heart skips a beat, and you quickly shake your head. “No, nothing. Why would you think that?”

She shrugs, unconvinced. “I don’t know… Just a feeling.”

You’re saved from having to respond when the bell rings. You grab your books and make a beeline for your next class, trying to ignore the heat of Sunghoon’s stare burning into your back.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Class drags on painfully. You can’t focus. Your mind is a whirlwind of confusion and annoyance. You thought sneaking around with Sunghoon would be fun, a game—a way to blow off steam. But now it’s getting messy, and you’re starting to feel the consequences.

When the bell finally rings, you bolt out of the classroom, desperate for fresh air. But as soon as you turn the corner, you’re yanked into an empty hallway.

Sunghoon.

His grip on your arm is firm, and his eyes are intense, searching yours. “We need to talk,” he says, his voice low.

You pull your arm free, glaring at him. “What’s there to talk about, Sunghoon? We agreed this was supposed to be casual. No strings, remember?”

He frowns, clearly irritated by your tone. “Yeah, but it doesn’t feel like that anymore, does it?”

You cross your arms over your chest, trying to steady your breathing. “That’s because you’re making it weird. Just… back off a little, okay?”

Sunghoon’s jaw clenches, and he takes a step closer. “Back off? You’re the one acting all paranoid, Y/N.”

“Maybe because you won’t stop staring at me like everyone else can’t see it!” you snap back, your voice rising. “This was supposed to be simple. But you’re turning it into something… complicated.”

He scoffs, a humorless smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe because it is complicated. Or have you not noticed?”

You hate the way your chest tightens at his words, the way his closeness makes your heart race. “Don’t do this, Sunghoon,” you warn, your voice quieter, more vulnerable than you’d like.

He pauses, his gaze softening just for a second. “Do what?”

“Make this more than it is,” you whisper, feeling a knot form in your throat. “Because I can’t… I won’t.”

Sunghoon’s expression hardens again, and he leans back, crossing his arms defensively. “Fine,” he mutters. “If that’s how you want it.”

You swallow, forcing yourself to stay composed. “Yeah. It is.”

He nods curtly, stepping away, his face unreadable. “Good. See you around, then,” he says before turning on his heel and walking away, leaving you standing in the empty hallway with your heart in your throat.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The next few days are torture. Sunghoon keeps his distance, and you tell yourself it’s for the best. But every time you see him, every time you catch his eyes across the cafeteria or in class, there’s a hollow ache in your chest that you can’t ignore.

Your friends notice the tension. They ask questions, but you shrug it off, pretending everything’s fine. But you can’t stop replaying your last conversation with Sunghoon, the way his face looked when you told him to back off. You hate how much you miss him, even if you’d never admit it to anyone, especially not to him.

One afternoon, as you’re walking to your car after school, you spot him leaning against a tree nearby, talking to some girl you don’t recognize. He’s smiling, that same smile that used to be reserved for your private moments. Something sharp twists in your chest, and you quickly look away, anger flaring up.

He catches your glance and, for a moment, his smile falters. But then he leans in closer to the girl, laughing at something she says, and your stomach churns with a mix of jealousy and frustration.

You grip your bag tighter, feeling a sting behind your eyes. This is exactly why you didn’t want things to get complicated. You turn away, refusing to look back.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Sunghoon avoids you. He’s usually the first one to shoot a teasing remark your way, but he’s silent. The hallways feel strangely empty without his usual jabs, and your friends are starting to notice the shift between you two.

“Are you guys fighting again?” Karina asks, as the two of you walk to lunch. Her tone is half-exasperated, half-amused, but you know she’s genuinely curious. “You and Sunghoon, I mean. There’s definitely more tension than usual.”

You shrug, trying to seem indifferent, but your stomach twists with anxiety. “When aren’t we fighting?” you mutter.

She gives you a knowing look, but thankfully doesn’t push it further. You’re not sure how much more of this you can take without your feelings bubbling over. You’re determined to get through lunch without letting Sunghoon get under your skin, but when you enter the cafeteria, you spot him immediately.

He’s at your usual table, talking to Heeseung, but his gaze is elsewhere. The second you walk in, his eyes find yours, and there’s a fleeting moment of something unreadable in his expression. A flash of frustration? Longing? You can’t be sure.

You take a deep breath and head over, sliding into your usual seat. Karina sits next to you, and for a moment, everything feels normal. But then Sunghoon starts talking.

“So,” he says, his tone casual but his eyes locked on you, “Heeseung, heard you and Karina had another spat. What was it this time? You didn’t say ‘I love you’ enough?”

Heeseung rolls his eyes, but Karina just laughs, lightly smacking Heeseung’s arm. “Don’t listen to him, babe. He’s just deflecting from his own issues,” she teases.

Sunghoon smirks, but there’s no real humor in it. “I don’t have issues, Karina. Just people who like to make things complicated,” he says, glancing at you.

You feel your face heat up, irritation boiling over. “Oh, please,” you snap back. “Like you’re the picture of simplicity.”

He leans back in his chair, his eyes glinting with challenge. “Never said I was. But at least I’m honest about it.”

Your chest tightens. “Honest?” you scoff. “You’ve been playing games from the start, Sunghoon.”

He shrugs, feigning indifference. “Maybe I have. But at least I know what I want.”

His words send a jolt of electricity through you, and you clench your jaw, trying to keep your composure. “And what’s that, exactly?”

He leans forward, his voice dropping low so only you can hear. “You. But you already knew that.”

Your heart skips a beat. For a second, you’re frozen, caught between wanting to slap him and… something else. Something you’re not ready to face.

“You’re such a—” you start, but before you can finish, Sunghoon’s foot nudges yours under the table, and your breath hitches.

You’re hyper-aware of the table between you, the curious glances from your friends, and the heat creeping up your neck. Sunghoon’s gaze is still on you, challenging, waiting for your response.

You can’t help the retort that slips out. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He shrugs with a small grin. “More than you know.”

Before you can shoot back another insult, heeseung cuts in, oblivious to the tension. “Okay, what is happening between you two? I feel like I missed an entire chapter here.”

Sunghoon doesn’t even glance at Heeseung. “Nothing’s happening. Right, Y/N?”

“Right,” you reply, forcing a smile, but your voice sounds strained, even to your own ears.

Heeseung and Karina exchange a look, clearly unconvinced. “Sure, whatever you say,” Karina murmurs with a smirk. “Just remember, denial isn’t just a river in Egypt.”

Sunghoon’s lips twitch in amusement, and he finally looks away, leaning back in his chair as if nothing happened. But under the table, his foot is still lightly brushing against yours, sending sparks up your leg.

You bite the inside of your cheek, determined not to let him see how much he’s getting to you.

But you can’t help it—the sensation, the frustration, and the undeniable attraction between you are all mixing into one chaotic storm.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch, and everyone begins to gather their things. You stand, trying to shake off the tension still lingering between you and Sunghoon, but Karina has other ideas.

“Hey, Y/N,” she calls, grabbing your arm just as you’re about to head out. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

You nod, feeling a knot form in your stomach. She leads you to a quieter corner of the hallway, away from the crowd. You can tell by the look on her face that she’s not letting this go.

Karina crosses her arms, tilting her head slightly. “Okay, seriously,” she starts, her voice low but pointed. “What the fuck was that back there?”

You blink, trying to feign ignorance. “What was what?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t play dumb with me. You and Sunghoon… there was some serious tension at lunch. It was like watching a live soap opera, and I feel like I’ve missed a few episodes.”

You sigh, glancing around to make sure no one is listening in. “It’s nothing, Karina,” you insist, but even to your own ears, it sounds unconvincing.

Karina raises an eyebrow. “Nothing? Really? Because from where I was sitting, it looked like something. A big something.”

You bite your lip, unsure of how much to tell her. “Look, we… we just don’t get along. You know that.”

“Yeah, but this felt different,” she replies, not letting up. “Like, I don’t know, it almost seemed like… there was something more there.”

Her words hit a little too close to home, and you feel your cheeks heat up. “You’re imagining things,” you say quickly, but Karina’s not buying it.

She leans in closer, her expression turning more serious. “Y/N, I’m your best friend. I know when something’s up. And that? That was definitely something.”

You hesitate, torn between the urge to confide in her and the fear of admitting the truth. “It’s complicated,” you finally admit, your voice barely a whisper.

Karina’s eyes widen with intrigue. “Complicated how?”

You swallow hard, looking away. “I don’t even know how to explain it. We’ve just… been hanging out a little more lately. And things got… weird.”

“Weird how?” she presses, clearly not letting this go.

You take a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “We’ve been… hooking up,” you confess, your voice almost inaudible.

Karina’s mouth falls open in shock. “Wait, what? You and Sunghoon?” She looks like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or gasp. “Since when?”

“A few weeks,” you admit, feeling a strange mix of relief and anxiety now that the secret is out.

Karina blinks, taking a moment to process. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I didn’t think it would last this long,” you say defensively. “I thought it was just going to be a one-time thing, but then… it wasn’t.”

Karina’s expression softens slightly. “And how do you feel about it? About him?”

You shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. “I don’t know. It’s confusing. Half the time, I can’t stand him. The other half… well, you saw how lunch went.”

Karina lets out a small laugh. “Yeah, I did. It’s like you two can’t decide whether you want to kill each other or… not.”

You groan, leaning back against the wall. “That’s exactly how it feels.”

Karina nudges you with her elbow. “Just be careful, okay? Sunghoon’s not exactly known for being straightforward with his feelings.”

You nod, appreciating her concern. “I know. Trust me, I’m not expecting anything… much. It’s just… whatever it is.”

Karina gives you a knowing smile. “Alright, but just remember, I’m here if you need to talk. Or, you know, if you need me to kick his ass.”

You laugh, feeling some of the tension ease. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

As you walk back to class, you feel a little lighter, but also more uncertain than ever. Because now that Karina knows, it feels more real. And that scares you more than you’d like to admit.

You pause for a moment, letting your thoughts catch up to your racing heart. Sunghoon had admitted it first, hadn't he? In his own cryptic way, he’d confessed he wanted more than just the back-and-forth, more than just the thrill of the chase. You remember the way he looked at you that day, his eyes full of frustration and something else — something softer, something you weren’t ready to face.

He’d said he wanted you. He’d practically dared you to deny that you wanted him, too. And ever since, you’ve been trying to convince yourself that it didn't matter — that it was just some passing thing, some fling to fill the boredom. But it wasn't. It never was.

You sigh deeply, leaning back against the wall of the building. The memory of his words still lingers like a brand on your skin: "I want you." It had sounded so simple when he said it, so sure. Like he wasn’t afraid of the mess that came with it.

You’ve been too afraid to admit it to yourself, but now… now it feels like you’ve been fighting a battle that’s already lost.

He confessed his feelings first, but you’ve been holding back, afraid to let yourself feel the same. Afraid of what it might mean, of how it could change things between you. You thought you could control it, could manage the situation and keep your distance, but all you’ve managed to do is dig yourself deeper into this mess.

You’re tired. Tired of fighting your own heart, tired of pretending you’re unaffected. Tired of feeling like you're caught in this tug-of-war between desire and denial.

*He’s already put himself out there,* you remind yourself. *He made the first move.* And that thought alone is enough to push you forward, to make you realize that maybe it’s your turn now. Your turn to decide if you want to keep running or if you’re brave enough to let yourself fall.

Pushing off the wall, you feel a wave of determination settle over you. If you’re going to do this, you need to find him and be honest. Not just with him, but with yourself.

Because you don’t want to keep this back-and-forth going, this constant dance of pushing and pulling. You want to know where you stand — with him, and with whatever this thing between you is becoming.

You take a deep breath and start walking, knowing exactly where to find him. And this time, you’re not going to let him get away without an answer.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You find Sunghoon by the lockers, leaning against the metal with that typical nonchalant pose he seems to have perfected. His head is tilted down, focused on his phone, but he looks up as you approach, sensing your presence. His eyes flicker with surprise for just a moment before his usual guarded expression returns.

“What do you want?” he asks, his voice laced with that familiar arrogance, but there’s something else there, too—an undercurrent of curiosity, maybe even hope.

You don’t bother with pleasantries. “We need to talk,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. You try to sound firm, but even you can hear the slight waver in your voice. Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

“Oh, so now you want to talk?” he retorts, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “After avoiding me all day?”

You roll your eyes, feeling the tension bubble up again. “I wasn’t avoiding you,” you snap, even though you both know it’s a lie. “I just needed… time to think.”

He straightens up, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Think about what?” he asks, and his tone is a little softer now, less mocking.

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of your next words pressing down on you. “About this. About us,” you say, your voice steadier now. “I’m tired of all this back and forth, Sunghoon. I’m tired of pretending like there’s nothing between us when we both know there is.”

His eyes search yours, and for a moment, his guard slips. “I told you how I felt,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re the one who kept pretending it was just… nothing.”

You feel a pang of guilt twist in your stomach. “I know,” you admit, meeting his gaze head-on. “And I was wrong. I thought I could just… push it away, ignore it. But I can’t. Not anymore.”

Sunghoon’s expression softens, just a little. “So what are you saying?” he asks, his voice careful, as if he’s trying not to hope too much.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stay honest. “I’m saying… I want to figure this out. I want to try… whatever this is between us. But I need you to be real with me, Sunghoon. No more games.”

He takes a step closer, closing the distance between you, and you can feel your heart pounding in your chest. “I’ve been real,” he says, his voice low and intense. “I’ve been real since that night at Karina’s party, and I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”

You’re taken aback by the sincerity in his words, by the way his eyes seem to bore into yours like he’s trying to see into your very soul. “I’m here now,” you reply, your voice barely a whisper.

Sunghoon takes another step closer, and now he’s right in front of you, his breath warm on your skin. “So what do you want?” he murmurs, his hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair from your face. “Do you want me, or are you still trying to convince yourself you don’t?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you’re not sure what to say. But then you realize you’ve known the answer all along. “I want you,” you admit, your voice steady, finally letting the truth slip past your lips. “But I don’t want to keep pretending like it’s nothing. I want to try… something real. But I don’t want it to be this constant push and pull, Sunghoon. I can’t keep doing that.”

Sunghoon’s lips curl into a small, almost relieved smile. “Then let’s stop playing games,” he says softly, leaning in closer. “Let’s see where this goes, no more pretending. Just you and me.”

You feel a strange sense of relief wash over you at his words, a weight lifting from your chest. “Okay,” you whisper, and it feels like the most honest thing you’ve said in a long time.

His smile widens just a fraction, and he closes the final distance between you, his lips brushing against yours in a way that feels both familiar and new. It’s not the frantic, heated kisses you’ve shared before—it’s slower, deeper, filled with a promise of something more.

And for the first time, you feel like you’re finally on the same page. Finally moving in the same direction.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Over the next few weeks, things between you and Sunghoon change in ways you never could have anticipated. At first, it’s subtle — small shifts that only the two of you notice. You spend more time together between classes, sitting closer at lunch, and texting late into the night. The playful bickering is still there, but it’s softened somehow, more like an inside joke than a battle.

Your friends don’t notice at first. They’re used to seeing you and Sunghoon together, arguing about this or that, so the extra time you spend with him doesn't raise any immediate red flags. But eventually, the signs become too obvious to ignore.

One day at lunch, you’re sitting next to Sunghoon, your legs brushing under the table. His hand casually rests on the back of your chair, his thumb occasionally grazing your shoulder. Jay, seated across from you, narrows his eyes, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Okay, what’s going on?” he asks, his tone teasing but his eyes curious.

You glance over at Sunghoon, who just smirks. “What do you mean?” you reply, trying to sound nonchalant, but you can feel the flush creeping up your neck.

Jay gestures between the two of you. “This,” he says, waving his hand. “You two. You’re being weird. Weird even for you two.”

Karina, who’s been listening in, gasps. “Oh my god,” she says, her eyes widening with realization. “Are you guys… together?”

The table goes silent for a second, everyone turning to look at you. Sunoo’s eyebrows shoot up, and Jake leans forward, looking like he’s trying to solve a particularly complicated math problem.

Sunghoon leans back, crossing his arms over his chest with a grin. “Depends,” he says casually. “What do you think?”

You elbow him in the side, rolling your eyes at his vague answer. “Yes,” you say, looking at your friends. “We’re… together. Kind of.”

“Kind of?” Sunghoon echoes, feigning offense, and you shoot him a playful glare.

“Yes, kind of!” you insist, turning back to your friends, who are now staring at you like you’ve just revealed you’re secretly an alien. “It’s… new.”

Heeseung chuckles. “I mean, I’m not totally surprised,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “You two have been like a powder keg waiting to explode for years.”

Yuna nods eagerly. “Honestly, it was about time,” she adds, and you can’t help but laugh at her bluntness.

Jungwon, however, looks mildly concerned. “So, you’re serious?” he asks, glancing between you and Sunghoon. “Like, actually serious?”

Sunghoon looks at you, his smile softening just a bit, and he nods. “Yeah,” he says, and there’s a sincerity in his voice that makes your heart skip a beat. “We’re serious.”

Your friends take a moment to process this. Then Jake grins. “Alright,” he says, raising his glass of soda. “To Y/N and Sunghoon. The enemies-to-lovers arc we didn’t know we needed.”

You laugh, and everyone joins in, raising their glasses. It’s strange, in a way, seeing everyone so quickly accept what feels like a massive shift in your life. But it also feels… right.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Over the next few days, things become more obvious. You and Sunghoon are no longer trying to hide. He reaches for your hand in the hallways, and you let him. He kisses you on the cheek in front of the others, and they pretend to gag but smile knowingly when they think you’re not looking.

You catch Karina’s eye one afternoon, and she gives you a grin that’s part smug, part excited. She leans over, whispering, “So… you finally admitted you like him, huh?”

You smile, shrugging a bit. “Guess so,” you say, and she laughs, nudging you with her elbow.

The hardest part, strangely enough, is getting used to the change yourself. It’s still weird to not have to hide how you feel, to be able to smile at Sunghoon without wondering if anyone is watching. But with each passing day, it gets a little easier.

And it’s not like everything is perfect. You and Sunghoon still argue — of course, you do. That’s just how you are. But there’s something different now, something that feels less like anger and more like… passion. Like you’re both on the same side, even when you’re bickering.

There are moments when you catch him looking at you from across the room, a small smile on his lips, and you feel a warmth spread through your chest. And in those moments, you know — this is real. This is right.

Your friends have stopped asking questions. They’ve accepted that this is your new normal, and honestly, so have you. The only thing left to do is see where it takes you.

taglist: @awqken @hollyoongs @enhastolemyheart @wonnienyang @skzenhalove @slvrnm @lovesangyeon @velvetkisscs @soobieboo @jakeflvrz @woorcve @moonpri @blockbusterhee @yjwsgf @doublebunv @moon4moony @woniebae @moon368 @jakeswifewithtwokids @love4hee @ikeryn @univershoon @indigoez @ramenoil @iilwji @riribell @ilabjungwon @tunafishyfishylike @psh23xie @toodeloosoo @leov3rse @onlyhyunjin @nyxtwixx @mnxnii @whateverhoon @jayrelics @laurradoesloveu @heeswif3y @enhalxvr @yunhoswrldddd @nikiswifiee @aiiselle90210 @lixiebokie @lelsforlino @eneiyri @punchbug9-blog @babystrlla @hee-yunie @hoonics @notevenheretbh1

[helaintoloki]

Across the Hall

pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

warnings/notes: kind of a slow burn with fluff, angst, themes of insecurity, violence, reader has an abusive ex, eventual happy ending

a/n: this took me forever to write but hopefully you guys like it! and also friendly reminder that my requests are open so feel free to send in your ideas :)

summary: Bucky’s quiet life is disrupted when a new neighbor seeks his help

It starts with three knocks to his door.

Bucky had only been home for five minutes since returning from his workout when the noise startled him out of his contemplative state. He wasn’t exactly thrilled at the interruption considering he wasn’t expecting company so late into the evening, but he felt obligated to throw on a sweater to cover his arm and answer the door for whoever stood on the other side.

The man is taken aback when he finds you standing there before him nervously wringing your hands together with a timid smile. He doesn’t quite recognize you, but he vaguely recalls hearing word of a new tenant in the building and assumes that must be you. He notes the way your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of him and shifts uncomfortably in response, unsure as to what exactly it is you’re here for.

“Hi,” you promptly greet after regaining your composure. He’s much more handsome up close, and you hadn’t been prepared for that. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I kind of have a bookshelf that’s a bit too heavy for me to move on my own and I was hoping you could help me? I just moved in across the hall so I’m trying to get settled in, but it’s proving to be more difficult than I anticipated.”

The stoic man can’t help but to let out an amused chuckle at your predicament; you appear so jumpy and nervous after asking such a mundane request, but he oddly finds it endearing. Bucky was known to keep to himself and avoid interactions with other tenants, but he figured he could make an exception for a new neighbor.

“Sure,” he offers with a friendly smile, feeling oddly proud at the look of relief that washes over your features in response. He didn’t exactly have any exciting plans for the evening, so he could spare some time to help you move your heavy shelf.

“Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver!” You exclaim before offering your hand for him to shake. “I’m y/n, by the way.”

“James,” he replies before cautiously taking your hand in his left one, thankful for the fact he’d left his leather gloves on when returning home. You don’t seem to notice his abnormality as you pull your hand away and lead the man into your apartment.

Unsurprisingly, it’s sparsely decorated and overflowing with boxes that have yet to be unpacked, but there are hints of personal touches spread throughout. The bookshelf in question sits in the center of the room, and by the scratches in the floor Bucky can tell you’d fruitlessly attempted to move it yourself before seeking his help.

“Just tell me where you want it,” he prompts you before grabbing the edges of the shelf.

“I was thinking of having it up against this wall next to the couch,” you explain while wildly gesturing with your hands towards the empty space. “At least, it will be against the couch once I buy one…”

“I take it you didn’t bring a lot of furniture with you,” he jokes lightheartedly despite how awkward he feels being in the apartment of a woman he’s only known for about three minutes. He moves the shelf with minimal effort, though he plays up the amount of strain he experiences so that you don’t become suspicious of how incredibly strong he is compared to the average man.

“I was kind of in a rush to leave the last place I was staying so I brought what I could,” you explain with a sheepish smile. “Thank you again for this, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies easily before stepping back to admire his work. “This good?”

“It’s perfect, thank you.”

“Anything else you need?” He offers, but you simply shake your head in response.

“I think that should be it for now, but if something comes up you’ll be the first to know,” you joke with a smile, appearing more at ease now with the man. Your face brightens before you wordlessly disappear into the kitchen, leaving Bucky alone and unsure if he should make his exit or not. However, before he can make a decision you quickly return with a Tupperware full of muffins. “Here, I just baked these an hour ago so they’re still pretty fresh.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” he tries to deflect with a bashful smile, but you’re insistent he take the container from your grasp and practically shove it into his hands.

“Really, take them. Consider them thank you muffins for allowing me to briefly inconvenience you.”

Letting out a small huff of amusement, Bucky finally relents with a nod and accepts your offering. “Thank you.”

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer,” you proclaim with a sigh before walking him out the door. “Have a good rest of your night, and don’t be a stranger.”

You part with a friendly wave before gently shutting the door behind him, leaving Bucky to stand aimlessly in the hallway with the container of muffins in his hands. He feels oddly warm and content inside, emotions that rarely follow interactions with strangers, but he figures you’re not really a stranger now.

However, you have interrupted his evening, for Bucky spends the rest of the night thinking about your smile.

~~~

Three days pass before Bucky decides to seek you out.

He isn’t sure what compels him to become so bold, but he knows that he has to see you again. You haven’t left his mind in days despite how hard he tries to push the thoughts down, so he figures he might as well get it over with and attempt to start another conversation. He can’t exactly recall any of his old moves back from his own time or know if they’re still reliable, so he approaches the situation the only way he knows how.

“Hey, neighbor,” he greets with a timid smile when you finally open your door. You look surprised to see him, but he doesn’t miss the way your eyes brighten at his presence. You thought the man charming but quiet and assumed his reserved nature meant he liked to keep to himself, so you’re pleased to see him again after the bookshelf fiasco.

“Hi, James,” you say with a pleasant smile. “What brings you here?”

“I was hoping I could trouble you for a cup of sugar?” He asks, face immediately heating with embarrassment at the insanely cliche request. James had a perfectly good container of sugar in his own apartment, but you didn’t need to know that.

“Of course! I actually just went grocery shopping, come in.”

Your apartment looks vastly different from the last time he’d been here, more personal touches spread throughout and only a handful of unpacked boxes still remaining. It feels warm and inviting, and Bucky swallows nervously as he processes the fact that this is only his second time in your space. Maybe he should leave you alone before he gets in too deep, before he has to ruin your camaraderie by coming clean about the person he really is and you decide that you don’t want an ex-assassin in your apartment anymore. Instead, he chooses to make small talk.

“How are you liking it here so far?”

“It’s nice,” you hum thoughtfully as you reach for the sugar up on the shelf. Bucky quickly looks away when your shirt starts to ride up with your reach, but he can’t ignore the way his stomach flips at the sight of a little skin. “Everyone I’ve met so far is friendly and it seems really peaceful. I like having my own place again.”

“Were you living with someone before?” Bucky prods, hoping he’s not asking too many questions. You smile faintly as you begin to pour the sugar into a small jar, but he notes the way it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Yeah, uh, my fiancé. Or, ex-fiancé now, I guess,” you murmur with a humorless chuckle. “It didn’t work out.”

Your usually cheerful demeanor has now dulled, and Bucky feels guilty for having brought it up in the first place. He isn’t exactly sure what to say or do to make it better, but thankfully you choose to save the conversation for him.

“What are you using the sugar for, by the way?”

Bucky stiffens, eyes widening slightly as he realizes he didn’t rehearse a script to go along with his lie. He wasn’t making anything, but he didn’t think he could flat out tell you that the sugar was just an excuse to see you again.

“Apple pie,” he quickly replies, wincing at the abruptness of his tone while you smile and carefully slide the jar of sugar across the counter his way.

“Sounds good. I’m more of a pumpkin pie girl, myself,” you hum thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I’m not really a pie person at all. Just thought I’d try something new,” Bucky offers with a sheepish grin, eyes glancing around the apartment only to notice the empty space next to the bookshelf. “Still haven’t found a couch?”

“Nope,” you relent with a tired sigh. “I’ve been meaning to go couch shopping, but I’m kind of worried about how I’m gonna even get it up the stairs and into the apartment by myself.”

“I can help you with that,” Bucky blurts before he can stop himself. You appear taken aback at first, but a look of relief soon washes over your features at his words.

“Oh my god, would you really?” You exclaim with delight, and before Bucky can even process what’s happening you’re quickly throwing your arms around the man in an appreciative hug. He stiffens immediately upon contact, not used to such acts of affection and especially not from a woman as pretty as yourself. You, however, don’t seem to notice his awkward demeanor in the slightest. “You have no idea how much I appreciate you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he offers bashfully as he tries not to let you see how much of an impact your touch has on him.

“Does tomorrow around one sound good?”

“It sounds perfect,” he replies earnestly.

It isn’t until later in the evening that he realizes he’s never been couch shopping before.

~~~

As Bucky promised, he accompanies you in your search for a couch and helps you carry it into your living room. It nestles in perfectly next to your shelf, and you couldn’t be more thrilled.

You invite him to stay for a movie in celebration of finally having a spot to sit, and though he promised Sam he’d meet him for dinner he doesn’t have the heart to say no to you. That’s how Bucky ends up nestled next to you on the couch enjoying his first ever viewing of Silence of the Lambs.

“So you’re telling me you’ve really never seen this movie before?”

“I guess you could say it’s been on my bucket list,” he admits with a diffident laugh, grateful you’re none the wiser to the truth his words hold.

“It’s one of my favorites!” You gush enthusiastically before passing him the bowl of untouched popcorn. “But I think that might make me sound crazy to admit out loud.”

“Crazy is good,” Bucky assures you with a tender smile, chest tightening at the way your eyes light up in response to his words. “I like crazy.”

You settle into the movie together with ease, enjoying snacks and answering any questions Bucky has about the film. It amazes him how naturally he can fall into spending time with you, almost as if you were merely long lost friends and not strangers who lived across the hall from one another. He hadn’t felt this way since Steve, but even then, what he felt with you was different. Special. You existed outside of his life as a Sargent or the Winter Soldier, and he enjoyed having you help him fulfill his need for normalcy.

A random sitcom now plays to provide background noise as you and Bucky continue to converse way past the movie’s end. You long to know more about the handsome stranger who has slowly become a normal part of your routine, and you hang onto every word he says no matter how heavy your eyelids feel.

“I’m not sure if I have a favorite song, but I definitely think I won’t be able to get ‘Goodbye, Horses’ out of my head for the next few days after watching that movie,” he confesses with a wry grin that has you quietly giggling into your hand.

“You seem like the type of guy who listens to oldies,” you note with a thoughtful hum, prompting him to shift uncomfortably from his place on the couch. “Would you say you have an old soul?”

“Something like that,” Bucky notes with a wince. He wants nothing more than to be completely honest with you, but he fears it may be too soon to unload his history on you. He’s not sure he could handle the hurt that would come from you pushing him away if you didn’t like the truth. “Do you like that type of music?”

“I did at one point, but I kind of fell out of it once I started dating my ex-fiancé. He hated it,” you note while scrunching your nose in distaste at the mere mention of the man. “He hated everything, if I’m being honest.”

“Is that why you called it off and moved here?” Bucky asks before he can stop himself. He doesn’t mean to pry or be invasive of your past, but he wants to understand how any man could fumble an absolute gem like yourself.

“Well, that, and the fact that he had a habit of getting physical with me,” you confess casually with a despondent smile that fails to reach your eyes. Bucky rears back in shock at your confession, prompting you to quickly interject, “But I got out of there as fast as possible, and now I’m much happier on my own.”

“I’m… I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” Bucky offers gently. “I hope you know how incredibly strong you are.”

Smiling, you carefully reach across and take his gloved hand in your own. Despite not being able to feel the touch of your skin, the warmth you emit is enough to have his heart racing in his chest when you tightly clasp his hand.

“You’re unlike any guy I’ve ever met, James.”

“Bucky,” he corrects you gently. Your brows furrow slightly in response, prompting him to let out a small chuckle at your puzzlement. He gently gives your hand a squeeze before continuing, “My friends just call me Bucky.”

Realization sets as your brows lower and lips pull into a delighted smile at his clarification. You gently return the squeeze before nodding in understanding, thrilled at the idea of having your first official friend in the city.

“Okay,” you agree softly, “Bucky it is.”

~~~

You knock on Bucky’s door with the hopes of having him over for dinner, but it isn’t your neighbor that greets you on the other side.

“Can I help you, little lady?” The man says with a playful smile. His stature is intimidating but his features are kind, and for a moment you find yourself forgetting what you even came for in the first place.

“Is Bucky home by chance?” You ask with a bashful smile, hoping your eagerness to see the man in question isn’t too obvious to his guest.

“He should be on his way back with some takeout,” the man explains. “You like Chinese?”

He doesn’t allow you to answer before opening the door wider and allowing you entry into the apartment. It feels wrong to do so without Bucky being present, but you don’t want to be rude by rejecting the kind man’s offer. You swallow nervously when stepping foot into his home for the first time; the apartment is tidy but scarcely furnished, though you’re not one to judge considering you went four days without a couch.

“You a friend of Bucky’s?” The man asks while pulling out a chair from the island counter for you to sit. You nod.

“I just moved in across the hall, and Bucky’s been helping me get settled in. I’m y/n, by the way.”

“Oh, so you’re y/n,” he says with a knowing smile before offering a hand for you to shake. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Name’s Sam.”

“Nice to meet you,” you smile politely before freezing as his words finally settle in your mind. “Wait, really?”

“Of course, Bucky speaks very highly of you,” Sam affirms with a wink.

“What do I speak highly about?” A voice interrupts, prompting you both to turn your heads towards the man juggling boxes of takeout in the doorway. His eyes widen in surprise at your presence before a careful smile settles on his face. “Y/n, what brings you here?”

“I came to see if you wanted to join me for dinner, but I guess I’m jointing you and Sam instead. If that’s okay?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Sam answers for him, heartily clapping the man on the back. “A friend of Bucky’s is a friend of mine.”

You hide your laughter behind your hand at Bucky’s obvious annoyance towards his friend and decide to make yourself useful by setting the table for dinner. Despite this being your first time in his apartment, you’re easily able to find your way around his kitchen. It amazes him how quickly you’re able to make yourself comfortable in his space and how well you mesh into his life as if you’d always been a part of it.

“You never told me she was cute,” Sam murmurs under his breath with a playful nudge to Bucky’s side. The Sargent merely scowls in response before elbowing him back with more strength than necessary. However, the two immediately act inconspicuous when you turn your attention back to them and sit down to enjoy dinner.

“So how do you two know each other?” You ask before taking a bite of broccoli. Bucky gives Sam a pleading glance and attempts to convey his want for you to be kept in the dark about his true identity, and thankfully the Captain is able to pick up on his signals.

“We met through a mutual friend,” Sam answers with ease. “We actually hated each other at first.”

“Hate is a strong word,” Bucky tries to defend only to deflate at the pointed look Sam gives him.

“I don’t know how you can stand living across the hall from him,” Sam quips much to his friend’s chagrin.

“I’m actually really glad to be neighbors,” you confess with a sheepish smile, face heating with embarrassment while you try to avoid Bucky’s gaze. “I didn’t think I’d be able to make any friends when I first moved here, but he’s made it so much easier on me.”

“What are neighbors for?” Bucky offers with a careful smile before finally meeting your gaze. The room is charged with romantic tension as you two take in the other’s presence, and Sam makes sure to point this out to Bucky hours later when you finally return to your own apartment.

“I’m telling you, dude, she’s into you!” Sam exclaims from his place behind the sink. “You should go for it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky rebuffs with a scoff while taking a freshly washed plate from Sam and placing it on the drying rack.

“You’re kidding, right? You think I didn’t notice the eyes you were giving her?”

“What eyes?”

“You know, the eyes,” Sam emphasizes, immediately imitating the look of longing Bucky had worn earlier in your presence. The soldier’s face scrunches in bewilderment before he quickly shakes his head in displeasure.

“Don’t do that, that’s not what I look like.”

“That’s exactly what you look like,” his friend defends before handing him another plate. “Look, all I’m saying is it wouldn’t hurt to maybe tell the girl how you feel and invite her out for something nicer than Chinese takeout.”

“Alright, let’s say I ask her out. I pull out all the stops, and it goes perfect. She decides I’m the guy she wants to be with, and I decide that I need to come clean about who I really am in order for that to happen? What happens when I tell her she’s dating the Winter Soldier? When I tell her about the blood on my hands? She doesn’t even know about the arm.”

Sam is silent after Bucky’s line of questioning, and unsurprisingly, he doesn’t have an answer. The super soldier sighs before slumping against the island counter and allowing his head to hang in shame and regret.

“I’ve already lost one good friend. I don’t know if I can handle losing another,” he admits quietly, almost afraid to voice the thought aloud.

Sam rests a comforting hand on Bucky’s shoulder but remains silent, contemplating his next words before finally giving him a reassuring pat on the back.

“You’ll never know if you don’t try,” he reminds him gently. “And you and I both know this girl is worth the risk.”

Bucky smiles faintly at Sam’s words, thoughts already straying to you and the light you’ve managed to bring to his life. He knows his friend is right, but he still can’t bring himself to make a move, at least not yet.

All he can do is hope you won’t mind having an ex-assassin super soldier for a boyfriend.

~~~

A harsh thunderstorm plagues New York and cuts off the power to your building. Your apartment is shrouded in candlelight as you make the best of what you have, and you’re grateful for the fact that Bucky so graciously offered to come over and keep you company until the electricity is restored.

“I hate thunderstorms,” you shudder after lighting another candle to set on the coffee table. “They weren’t very common where I was from.”

“They’re a little loud,” Bucky agrees pensively. Each clap reminds him of his foggy past in the war, and he finds himself fighting to keep the unwelcome memories at bay.

You seat yourself on the couch across from the man and drape your throw over your legs to keep you warm. The living room is freezing now that the heater is out, and despite the amount of layers you throw on nothing seems to help.

“I don’t think I ever asked this, but what do you do for work?” You prompt him after a moment’s silence. Bucky shifts uncomfortably on the couch.

“I, uh, I’m retired,” he replies lamely while offering you a meager smile. “Army veteran.”

“You served in the army?” You ask with piqued interest, shifting a bit closer to the man. “What did you do?”

“I was a Sargent.”

“I never would have guessed,” you say thoughtfully.

“It was so long ago, I don’t… really like to talk about it,” Bucky confesses, refusing to meet your gaze. He knows he’s not technically lying to you, but he’s also aware of the fact that he’s not giving you the entire truth. He doesn’t know how to be straightforward with you, too petrified of risking you becoming afraid of him and withdrawing yourself, but he can only hide his true identity for so long before you find out.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you immediately apologize only for Bucky to assure you it’s fine. “We can talk about something else. How’s Sam?”

“That topic actually might be worse,” he grimaces, but his lighthearted smile that follows signals he’s only kidding. “Sam is good, just busy.”

“Being Captain America?” You finish for him with a raised brow much to Bucky’s surprise.

“You know?”

“I don’t think it’s exactly a secret,” you reply with a sheepish smile while wrapping the throw tighter around yourself. “He looked so familiar when I first met him, and a quick internet search helped me put it together pretty quickly.”

Bucky’s heart leaps into his throat at your words. If you’d done your due diligence on Sam, who’s to say you hadn’t done the same for him? Knowing you, he feels it’s safe to assume you would have brought it up by now if you had found any real information about his past, and he tries to remind himself of this as he attempts to quell the panic bubbling inside him.

“I won’t tell anyone that I met him personally or that he visits this apartment building,” you assure him, incorrectly assuming the reason for his panic is a need to protect Sam’s privacy. “Not that I really have anyone to tell considering you’re my only friend here.”

“Thank you for that,” Bucky breathes out in relief, anxious to move on from the conversation. “But what about your friends back home?”

“I didn’t really have any,” you quietly admit. You look away almost shamefully and take a moment to collect yourself before you can meet his eyes again. “My friends were my fiancé’s friends, and I knew they would never pick my side over his if I told anyone the type of man he really was. I knew if I wanted to get away I had to cut them off too or they’d just tell him where I’d run off to.”

Bucky knows he has no right, but every time you mention your ex-fiancé he can almost feel the anger boiling inside him. He can’t comprehend how anyone could ever mistreat someone as wonderful and kind as you, and he knew if he ever got the chance to meet the man he’d make him pay for all the hurt and anguish he’d caused you. Bucky almost felt like your protector in a sense, like it was his responsibility to look after you now that you were alone in such a big city, and he hoped you didn’t mind the fact.

A sudden clap of thunder has you nearly jumping into the air as you immediately throw yourself at Bucky’s side and anxiously grip onto his arm. He’s grateful for the fact that it’s his right arm you hold onto, but he still finds himself stiffening at the sudden closeness. It’s been years since a beautiful dame has thrown herself at him like this, and his brain feels like it’s overloading as he tries to process the moment.

“I’m sorry,” you offer meekly, clearly embarrassed at your frightened outburst. You start to move away only for Bucky to pull you back, prompting you to look up at him in surprise.

“Don’t be sorry,” he assures you with a comforting smile. “That’s what I’m here for.”

You find yourself slowly relaxing at his benevolent demeanor, and with his permission you slowly ease yourself back into his side and allow him to wrap an arm around your trembling figure.

The rain continues to pour outside your modest apartment, but you find yourself able to fall asleep in the comfort of Bucky’s embrace. The man never makes an attempt to move, not even when the power returns and the lights finally turn on. Instead, he allows himself to enjoy the warmth your closeness brings and admires your relaxed features as you sleep soundly with your head resting comfortably against his shoulder.

He could get used to this.

~~~

You scored a job as a waitress at a nearby diner to help pay your bills now that you’re completely on your own and your savings are beginning to run low, and Bucky notices that you’re gone from your apartment more often than not. His knocks go unanswered, and he finds himself feeling sullen in response to your sudden absence. You’ve invited him multiple times to come visit you at work and enjoy a free slice of pie, and on this particular day he decides to take you up on your offer.

It isn’t a long walk from the building, and he appreciates having an excuse to leave his apartment for once. His stomach is twisted in nervous knots at the thought of finally getting to see you again while he rehearses what he plans to say. Bucky’s boyish charm isn’t what it used to be, and his romantic moves are rusty from years of inaction. However, he is able to remember one move in particular that always went over well with the girls back in his day, and for that reason he stops at a local flower stand to buy you the nicest bouquet of roses he can find.

Bucky is a man in love, and if his gift goes over well, he plans to finally come clean and tell you everything about his past so that he can have a chance at being with you. No more beating around the bush.

The diner is empty save for a few occupied booths, and this makes it easier to spot you when he sets foot through the front doors. Though the sight of you immediately brings a smile to his face, it quickly fades when he notes the distress on your features. Your eyes are wide with fear, hands moving frantically as you speak to a man Bucky doesn’t recognize, and he doesn’t miss the relief that seems to wash over you when you meet his eyes from across the room and silently plead for help.

“Bucky!” You call with a nervous smile, anxiously wringing your apron in your trembling hands. “Perfect timing.”

“Who’s this?” He asks with a raised brow, eyeing the stranger up and down methodically. Bucky could easily take the man without question, but he still didn’t like the look of him. The man’s eyes were shifty and calculating, and his demeanor was one of arrogance and callousness.

“Bucky, this is Michael-“

“Her fiancé,” Michael boasts proudly with a braggart smile.

“Ex-fiancé,” you correct him through gritted teeth, “and he was just leaving.”

“Fine, fine,” Michael offers before raising his hands in surrender. “I know when I’m not wanted, but don’t think this is over.”

Bucky grunts in irritation when Michael goes out of his way to harshly bump his shoulder against your friend as he pushes his way out of the diner, leaving you a terrified mess as you stand trembling in the middle of the walkway. You swallow thickly and meet Bucky’s gaze with an apologetic smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I’m sorry about that,” you offer quietly, hands still nervously wringing your apron. Bucky notes the subtle quiver of your bottom lip and the way your lashes flutter quickly to hold back tears. You look terrified, and he hates to see you so wound up.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Bucky assures you gently as he sets the bouquet aside and takes your unsteady hands in his gloved ones. “Maybe you should sit down a minute and take a breath, yeah?”

“Yeah…” you murmur quietly before allowing him to gently ease you into the nearest booth. In your panic you hadn’t even noticed the flowers he’d brought, and despite your frenzied state you’re still able to offer him a bashful smile for his efforts. “Are these… are they for me?”

Nodding, Bucky grins before handing you the bouquet. “They’re for you, pretty girl. I thought they’d look nice in your apartment.”

“Thank you… for these, and for saving me back there. I can’t believe I froze like that.”

“What happened?” Bucky presses gently, wanting to know every detail possible so he can better protect you moving forward. You let out a shaky breath and absently fidget with the ribbon tying the flowers together as you begin to relay the events to your friend.

“I did everything I could to cover my tracks and start over, but he still managed to find me,” you murmur in defeat. “He wants me to come back home with him, and he says he won’t take no for answer. I don’t know what to do- he knows where I work, and it will only be a matter of time before he figures out where I live-“

“Hey,” Bucky urges gently, affectively stopping you from spiraling. “Nothing is going to happen to you under my watch. I’ll have Sam look into the guy, and in the meantime I’ll do whatever you need to feel safe, whether that’s walking you to work or crashing on your couch so you can sleep at night.”

You give him a watery smile and immediately rush to his side of the booth so you can throw yourself into his arms for a hug. He returns the embrace immediately, taking extra care not to use too much force with his vibranium arm while he holds you tightly to his chest. You don’t know when he’d managed to steal your heart, but you know that you’re falling in love with your neighbor from across the hall. He makes it so easy and has fallen into your life like a puzzle piece you hadn’t realized was missing from the picture. Unlike the men in your past, Bucky treats you with the utmost care and respect, and you adore him more than anything.

Bucky will keep good on his promise, and you trust him with your entire being to keep you safe.

~~~

As promised, Bucky has made it his own personal mission to be your bodyguard during your time of need. He drops you off and picks you up from work, accompanies you when you have to run out for groceries, and spends his nights sleeping on your couch. You feel guilty over the fact that the man is hardly ever in his own apartment anymore, so after some convincing you’re able to talk him into letting you cook him dinner at his place.

“Any word from Sam?” You prompt quietly while stirring a pot of marinara sauce on the stove. Life has been uneventful since Michael’s appearance at the diner, but you hate having to constantly look over your shoulder wherever you go. You don’t enjoy being on edge every waking moment and not being able to get a good night’s sleep, and you just want this whole situation to be over with.

“He hasn’t been able to find anything about your ex or his whereabouts. The man knows how to stay hidden,” Bucky replies with a scoff. The mere mention of him has the super soldier’s blood boiling, but he tries to remain composed for your sake. “But don’t worry. He can’t hide forever.”

Dinner is a quiet affair, and Bucky is disheartened to see how dejected and small you’ve become in the past few days. You aren’t yourself, not that he can blame you, but he just wishes there was something he could do to help you.

Nightfall comes soon after, and Bucky helps you get settled into bed. Despite being in his own apartment, he’s adamant that you take the mattress while he resumes his position on the couch. He thinks it will be safer that way, and he’ll be able to hear any threats before they make their way into the apartment.

“Try to get some sleep, doll,” Bucky utters softly, gently brushing his knuckles along your cheek before making his exit.

“Will you stay?” You blurt without thinking, surprising both you and Bucky as he stops in his tracks.

“Y/n, I… I don’t know,” he starts to say only for you to gently take hold of his hand and carefully tug him back towards you.

“I haven’t been able to sleep, and I’d feel better if you were here next to me,” you plead meekly, the exhaustion clear in your features. Bucky finds it hard to say no to you when you stare up at him with doe eyes and a trembling bottom lip; the sight pulls at his heartstrings, and so he finds himself carefully crawling into bed with you.

“Thank you,” you whisper gratefully as you shift onto your side to face him. Your noses are mere inches apart as you stare into each other’s eyes and enjoy the comfort of being together in bed.

“You’ll never have to thank me for wanting to take care of you,” Bucky whispers back while carefully pulling the blankets up higher over your shoulders. You feel the leather of his gloves brush against your bare skin and shudder before peering over at him.

“You sleep in those?” You voice curiously, prompting him to immediately stiffen in response. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without those gloves on.”

“I… have a prosthetic arm,” he confesses quietly, figuring now is as good a time as ever to tell you the truth. He refuses to meet your gaze as his lips pull tightly together into a frown, waiting for you to say something.

“Oh,” you hum softly. His heart pounds in his chest as he waits for judgement or disgust, but instead he feels your hand gently rest upon his left bicep. His entire body tenses, and he watches with bated breath as you run your fingers along the fabric of his long-sleeve shirt. You can’t feel the coolness of the metal, but you can sense the lack of flesh and muscle. He’s not sure how you’d never noticed before, but you weren’t exactly one for details.

“If it makes you uncomfortable I can sleep on the couch-“

“I think it’s cool,” you interrupt with a careful smile, no hint of insincerity or judgement in your tone. “You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to, but I don’t think it’s anything to be ashamed of.”

Bucky lets out an embarrassed huff of laughter and grapples with himself over your naivety. Would your opinion change if you knew what he’d done with his prosthetic arm as the Winter Soldier? He feels conflicted, but overall at ease with the fact that you seem receptive to his artificial appendage.

“You’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever met,” Bucky compliments you before leaning forward to press his lips against your forehead. You find yourself moving closer so that you’re pressed against his chest, and it almost feels natural to him when he wraps his arms around your frame and pulls you tightly against him.

Nestled in Bucky’s warm embrace, you’re able to enjoy your first peaceful night of sleep since Michael’s return.

~~~

Bucky leaves your sleeping form behind the next morning to pick up breakfast sandwiches from the nearby bodega for you both. He doesn’t exactly have the supplies necessary to make a homemade breakfast, but he knows you’ll never say no to a coffee and your favorite sandwich. When he returns, he finds that his apartment is empty and you’re missing from the bedroom. Initially he figures you must have gone across the hall to your own place to freshen up for the morning, so he’s not worried.

Bucky decides it best to bring the food over to your apartment, but before he can even knock on your door he’s met with the sound of commotion coming from the other side. He hears your muffled voice frantically speaking to someone followed by the sound of shattered glass, your screams prompting him to break down the door and barge his way into the room.

You sit cowering against your bookshelf while Michael menacingly towers over you. A fresh bruise blooms along your cheek while hot tears make their way down your face, and you look to Bucky pathetically for help while curling in on yourself. The roses he’d bought for you now lay scattered on the ground with shards of glass accompanying them, allowing the man to easily piece together what had occurred in his absence.

“You again,” Michael scoffs before slowly making his approach towards the super soldier. He flashes a snide smile as he condescendingly speaks, “Thanks for looking after my fiancé while I was away, but I got it from here.”

Bucky is unmoving, his eyes cold and unrelenting as his hardened gaze stares down at the intruder. Through your tears you can note the enraged tick of his jaw and the way his hands are tightly clenched at his sides as he holds himself back from doing something he’ll regret.

“She’s made it clear that she doesn’t want you here,” he nearly growls through clenched teeth. “You need to leave.”

“Or what?” Your fiancé provokes with a disbelieving laugh. “You think just because she bats her lashes at you and spends the night in your bed that makes you special? She’s a little attention whore, and you’re an idiot if you think otherwise.”

“You can’t talk about a woman like that,” Bucky utters lowly. His body is vibrating with rage, his ears beginning to ring while the tension continues to build within him. He notes the way you watch on helplessly from your place on the floor, and the last thing he wants to do is scare you by becoming aggressive, but Michael was making this feat more difficult with each second that passed.

“I can talk however I want about my own fiancé, pal,” Michael speaks before giving Bucky a harsh shove. The man remains unmoving, and your attacker momentarily falters when realizing how sturdy his opponent is. “Now do yourself a favor and mind your business.”

“Bucky,” you softly cry out, shoulders trembling and eyes pleading for him not to leave you.

James finds himself taking a deep breath in while allowing his body to relax. Michael’s antagonistic voice drones on, and he knows there’s only one way to remove this man from your apartment and out of your life for good. He just hopes you won’t hate him after what is to come.

His hand immediately shoots out and catches Michael’s throat, effectively cutting off his air supply and his ability to speak. Your startled gasp fills the room as Bucky lifts the man before throwing him through your doorway. He slams against the opposite wall with a deafening thud before landing on the floor, and despite the excruciating pain he feels in his body he still desperately tries to crawl away as Bucky takes slow steps towards him.

“Not so fun when you’re on the receiving end, is it?” Bucky taunts before kneeling down next to him. “You’re lucky I’m letting you leave here while you’re still breathing. But if you ever come here again, if you ever put your hands on her again, if you ever even think about her again, I’ll make sure you leave in a body bag. Is that understood?”

Bucky doesn’t receive an answer, but he knows he’s made his point clear when your ex pathetically scrambles onto his feet and books it down the hallway. Resting his hands on his hips, Bucky lets his head hang with a sigh. He didn’t enjoy having to berate the man in front of you, but he can at least take pride in the fact that your ex-fiancé will never bother you again thanks to him.

Bucky quietly makes his way back into your apartment and finds you carefully picking up the scattered shards of glass. You remain silent, even when he kneels down to help you, and he begins to worry that maybe he had gone too far.

“You okay?” He asks you in the softest tone he can manage. Your tired eyes peer up at him through wet lashes, and it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts before you can reply.

“Your glove came off,” you murmur quietly, and Bucky almost isn’t able to catch it.

“What?” He repeats before slowly turning his gaze to his left hand. Sure enough, his usual leather glove is missing and his metal hand is on full display. He swallows down the lump in his throat despite the building anxiety he feels, clenching and unclenching his fingers before looking back up at you. He must have lost it in the scuffle, and he’d been too engrossed in making his point clear to notice.

“That’s not a normal prosthetic arm… is it?” You feebly prompt him. Bucky refuses to meet your gaze and quickly stands himself upright before slowly backing away from you. He feels suffocated by his shame and his guilt, and as he takes in his surroundings he realizes that his worst fear is manifesting itself into reality right before his very own eyes.

He wordlessly leaves your apartment and swiftly locks himself back into his own living space. The walls are closing in around him, and Bucky can do nothing but let his anguish consume him.

He’d ruined everything.

~~~

You haven’t heard from Bucky in over a week and your knocks to his door go unanswered. You’re all alone again, and the isolation is suffocating.

You miss the man who had became a part of your daily routine and infiltrated your space with his kindness and warmth. You had fallen in love with him, your heart aching for him every time he was away, and now only a tightness in your chest remained in his absence. You hadn’t meant to embarrass him when pointing out his arm, and you meant what you said when you told him he had nothing to be ashamed of. Everything had happened so quickly you hadn’t had a chance to explain yourself, to explain that despite the fact that you knew everything, your opinion hadn’t changed of him.

Your meeting with Sam had led to a deep dive into the history of Captain America, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise that your search had led you to a plethora of information on the hero’s close friend James Buchanan Barnes. You knew you should have stopped yourself from reading further and instead asked Bucky to explain everything to you instead, but once you started reading you couldn’t stop. You were overloaded with information about his time in the war, his relationship with Steve Rogers, his affiliation with Hydra as the Winter Soldier, and his role in the fight against Thanos. It overwhelmed you, but it did not deter you from the man or prompt you to end your friendship with him. You weren’t afraid of him, and you worked desperately to get him to see that.

You hold a freshly baked batch of cookies in one hand while the other relentlessly knocks on his front door. You’ve been at this for about a good five minutes, and though it has earned you annoyed looks from neighbors that pass by you in the hallway, you’re determined not to give up until he sees you.

“Bucky, please,” you beg in exasperation, knuckles beginning to turn red from the constant impact against the wood of the door. “I know you’re in there so please come out. I can’t take this anymore.”

You’re met with silence, but this doesn’t deter you in the slightest; you know he’s in there and can hear your pathetic pleas. What you don’t know, however, is that he’s leaned right against the door on the other side watching you through the peephole. His mind is filled with turmoil as one part of him screams to open the door and let you in while the other insists this is for the best. What good does he have to offer you as an ex-assassin? What kind of life can you live tied down to the Winter Soldier? Bucky can’t bring himself to put you through the torment and the danger that comes with being his partner, and he curses himself for ever letting you get close to him in the first place.

“I miss you,” he hears you relent, voice wavering as you fight back tears. “You’re my best friend.”

Bucky can physically feel his chest tighten at your confession, and it takes everything in him to not open the door. He doesn’t think he can stand the torture any longer, and he begins to move towards his bedroom only for your voice to stop him in his tracks.

“I know everything,” you utter gently, prompting his heart to leap anxiously in his chest at your confession. “I know that you were a Sargent in World War ll, and your best friend was Steve Rogers. I know you’re the Winter Soldier. I know… I know that in spite of all of that, you’re the kindhearted man who befriended the complete stranger that knocked on your door and asked for help to move a bookshelf. You’re more than your past, and it doesn’t scare me like you think it does. I… I love you.”

You let your forehead fall against the door and shut your eyes, waiting with bated breath for any sort of response or movement from the other side of the door. You’re given nothing, and it’s now that you start to realize your friendship with Bucky is most likely over. You slowly back away from the door and set the plate of cookies beside it before taking one last longing look at his apartment.

“I’m sorry. I won’t bother you anymore,” you finally sigh, turning to make your way back to your own apartment. However, the click of the lock turning causes you to freeze in your tracks, and you hesitantly turn around to face the man whose door you’ve been assaulting for the past ten minutes.

His blue eyes are glossy with tears that threaten to fall, and his tired features display the torment he’s endured while isolating himself from you. He looks at you almost in astonishment, and for a moment neither of you dares to move or speak. You don’t know what to say or how much he’d heard.

“You…” he starts to say before taking a nervous swallow. “You said you loved me?”

You manage to flash him a meager smile while anxiously stuffing your hands in your pockets and casting your sheepish gaze to the floor. “I thought that was obvious. Why else would I be showing up at your door all the time?”

A quiet laugh of disbelief leaves him at your words, and Bucky feels confident enough now to leave the doorway of his apartment and take a step closer towards you.

“So this,” he says while raising his left hand and flexing his fingers, “doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it when that very arm kept me safe?” You utter gently, taking another step closer so that the space between you grows smaller. You hesitantly bite the inside of your cheek before slowly raising your hand and offering it to Bucky. A pregnant pause fills the air as he stares down at your outstretched fingers, his brows furrowing with uncertainty while he hesitantly clasps your hand in his artificial one.

The metal is cool against your palm and brings an instant sense of comfort as you lock your fingers together. You fit together perfectly as if your hand had been made for him, and a funny feeling tingles within his chest as Bucky comes to this realization.

“I’m sorry for shutting you out,” he professes earnestly, gently pulling you against his chest so that he can wrap his arms around your figure. “Everything felt too real, and I was terrified of the possibility that you might not want to be around me anymore.”

“You could never do anything to scare me away,” you assure him gently, your eyes full of sincerity as you peer up at him. “I meant what I said, Bucky. You’re my best friend, and I love you.”

“I love you too, doll,” he murmurs with an adoring smile. Using the tips of his metal fingers, Bucky gently angles your face so that he can meet your lips in a kiss. Your eyes immediately flutter shut as you melt against him and savor the feeling of being so close to the man you’d missed so dearly while you were apart.

It’s as if the rest of the world fades away while you share your tender embrace in the middle of the hallway where you’d first met months ago. You came to the city for a new start, but Bucky never would have guessed that your arrival would signal the start of his own new beginning.

A bookshelf brought you into each other’s worlds, and a kiss in the hallway would keep you together for the rest of your lives.

[abbotjack]

A Year of You

part three of the life we grew series (part one ✧ part two)

summary : Jack experiences the life he never thought he could have—one small moment, one milestone, one quiet act of love at a time. Through first steps, long winter nights, and the ache of watching her grow too fast, he learns that family isn’t something you find. It’s something you make—and hold onto with everything you have.

word count : 11,658

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI! marriage intimacy including smut, emotional vulnerability, parenting milestones (first words, first steps, first birthday), marriage-coded affection, strong family themes, soft but explicit depiction of married sexual intimacy, very husband-coded and dad-coded Jack Abbot energy.

MONTH ONE

It’s the first night home from the hospital when Jack realizes no amount of emergency training prepares you for a seven-pound newborn screaming at 2:00 a.m.

You’re crying, too.

Soft, exhausted tears you wipe away with the heel of your hand while trying to figure out the damn swaddle that looked so easy in the maternity class.

Jack watches you for a second from the nursery doorway, heart caught somewhere in his throat. Then he steps in, limping slightly from the long day and the prosthetic pinching at the socket, and kneels awkwardly next to you on the carpet.

“Move over, honey,” he mutters, hands gentle as he scoops up the baby—your baby—his daughter—like she’s something sacred.

"You’re doing good," he says, voice low, rough around the edges. "We’re just outnumbered, that’s all."

You let out a low, breathless laugh and lean into his side, drawn in by instinct more than thought. Jack smells like the hospital—something sharp and sterile clinging to his skin—but beneath it, there's a rougher pull: warm skin, worn leather, the dark, carved scent of mahogany and teakwood.

“C’mon, little bean,” Jack murmurs, voice low and rough with exhaustion. “We’ve made it through worse nights than this.”

You snort under your breath.

“She’s five days old, Jack. What worse nights?”

He shifts the baby higher onto his shoulder, the motion easy, instinctive, like she’s already been part of him forever. Without missing a beat, he deadpans, “You ever been stuck inside a Black Hawk during a sandstorm?”

You smack his arm, half laughing, half crying again, the sound breaking loose before you can catch it. Jack just grunts, the barest curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. He rocks the baby gently, his palm splayed wide over her tiny back like he could shield her from the whole world if he tried hard enough.

“You’re not in a war anymore, Jack,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He doesn’t look at you. Just leans down, pressing a kiss to the soft, downy hair at the crown of your daughter’s head.

“No,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “But I’m still fighting for something.”

The first month is a mess.

The kind of beautiful mess Jack would throw fists for if anyone ever tried to take it from him.

You both live in pajamas now. The kitchen has surrendered first—an open graveyard of half-drunk coffee cups, takeout containers, and meals nuked just enough to be edible. Some nights, you collapse into bed with the baby between you, swearing you’ll move her to the bassinet as soon as you can feel your legs again.

Jack, somehow, turns out to be better at diaper changes than either of you expected.

“Field dressing a sucking chest wound’s harder,” he mutters at four a.m., hands steady as he peels back the tabs of a fresh diaper. You’re blinking back tears over the latest catastrophic blowout, but Jack just shrugs, casual, like he's back in the desert again. “You just gotta respect the shrapnel.”

You’re better at feeding her—at being soft, patient, warm, even when you’re dead on your feet.

Jack watches you from across the couch sometimes, nursing her with your sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, and he thinks about how he almost didn’t get this.

How easily it could’ve gone the other way.

And he aches.

God, how he aches.

At her two-week checkup, Jack nearly decks a stranger.

You’re pushing open the door to the pediatrician’s office when it happens—some old guy with too much time and too little shame leers and says, “Bounced back fast after birth, huh?” His eyes drift lower, lingering where they have no business being.

You freeze, the words catching in your throat.

Jack doesn’t.

He moves without thinking, sliding in front of you with the kind of quiet, coiled force that doesn’t ask twice. It’s instinct, muscle memory, something deeper than thought. His frame blocks you from view, every line of his body taut with warning.

“Move along,” Jack says, low enough to rattle the floorboards.

The guy doesn’t argue. He takes one look at Jack—at the broad set of his shoulders, the dead-calm heat in his eyes—and stumbles off without another word.

Your fingers find Jack’s wrist, a light touch, grounding him before he slips somewhere darker.

He flexes his hand once, twice, the tension bleeding out slow. Then, wordlessly, he threads his fingers through yours, squeezing once.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

On the nights when the house feels too small and the baby won’t sleep unless she’s moving, Jack drives.

He straps her into the car seat so carefully you'd think she’s made of glass, adjusts the rearview mirror just to catch a glimpse of her, and drives the empty streets of Pittsburgh while you nap in the passenger seat, a ratty Allegheny General hoodie drowning you to the wrists.

Jack hums under his breath to fill the silence.

Old Johnny Cash songs. Some half-forgotten lullaby he doesn’t realize he knows.

You wake up once at a red light and find him staring at the baby in the mirror like she’s the first sunrise he’s ever seen.

You don’t say anything.

You just reach across the console and wrap your fingers around his wrist again.

Jack squeezes back.

Always back.

By the end of the first month, the house is wrecked, your work email has 235 unread messages, and Jack is one wrong word away from brawling with the guy at the grocery store who keeps asking if he needs "help carrying his bags" because of the limp.

Some nights you fall asleep on the couch with the baby breathing soft against your chest, too worn down to even shift her to the bassinet. Tonight’s one of those nights.

Jack walks in from the kitchen and stops when he sees you there—both of you curled into each other, the porch light casting a soft glow across the room.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself down. Not onto his knees—he plants himself into a sitting position, legs stretched out, leaning his good shoulder into the side of the couch so he’s right there, steady and close.

He brushes your hair back from your face with the backs of his fingers, so gently it almost doesn’t touch.

You stir at the contact, your voice thick with sleep.

"You’re tired too. Let me take her."

Jack shakes his head.

"No."

It’s soft. Absolute. Final.

He reaches up, sliding his hand over your shin, anchoring himself to you. His other hand comes to rest lightly on the baby's back, fingers spanning nearly her whole body.

"You’ve done enough today, baby," he murmurs, voice rough and low, barely stirring the air.

"You both have."

Jack tilts his head against the couch, eyes slipping closed. He doesn't need to say it—how much this moment means, how deeply it roots itself inside him.

The weight of it—the love, the exhaustion, the brutal, perfect ache of having something to lose again—presses deep into his bones, his chest, his blood.

And he lets it.

Finally, finally, he lets it.

MONTH TWO

The second month of her life feels quieter—but not easier.

The house settles into a strange rhythm: sleep in broken stretches, coffee going cold on the counter, laundry half-folded before someone cries (you, him, the baby—any of the above).

And Jack, god love him, tries to hold it all together like he's still back in combat—shouldering it, swallowing it, limping through it even when it's bleeding him dry.

You wake up around 3:00 a.m. to the soft, rhythmic creak of footsteps.

The baby’s crying had pierced your dream, but what keeps you awake is the sound of Jack pacing the living room—steady, stubborn, relentless.

You get out of bed and creep toward the hallway, heart aching at the sight you find:

Jack's shirt is rumpled, hanging loose over sweatpants. His hair's a wreck. He's moving with that stiff, exhausted limp he gets when he’s pretending everything’s fine. When it's been rubbing wrong all day and he hasn't said a word about it.

Your baby is pressed against his chest, tiny fingers clinging to the fabric of his t-shirt, and Jack’s rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles, murmuring nonsense under his breath.

You stand there for a second, heart splitting open inside your chest.

He’s trying so hard.

He’s carrying all of it.

And you’re not about to let him do it alone.

"Jack," you say softly.

He startles a little, blinking over at you with that war-tired look he gets sometimes, like he forgot he's allowed to have backup now.

You cross the room without hesitation.

"Hey," you murmur, gentle but firm, sliding your hands around his forearms. "Give her to me, baby."

Jack opens his mouth to argue—but you’re already untangling the baby from his arms, lifting her carefully against your chest.

He lets go with a shuddering breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

You bounce your daughter lightly, whispering soft, nonsense words into her ear while you use your free hand to tug Jack down onto the couch beside you.

"You’re limping bad," you say, thumb brushing over the line of tension at his brow. "You’re running yourself into the ground."

Jack huffs, looking away like he’s embarrassed, like admitting to needing anything is too much.

But you don’t let him.

You tilt his face back toward you with two fingers under his chin—gently, insistently.

"You don’t have to earn this, Jack," you whisper, so low it barely stirs the air. "You already have."

He closes his eyes like the words hurt—and heal—all at once.

You settle your daughter into the crook of one arm, and with the other, you start tracing slow, soothing circles against Jack’s wrist.

Just touching him.

Just reminding him you’re here.

That you’re not going anywhere.

Jack leans his head back against the couch, breathing you in. He doesn't say anything for a long time.

He just lets himself be touched.

Be loved.

And somewhere around the fourth circle you draw against his wrist, he shifts closer and drops his forehead to your shoulder with a heavy, broken little sigh.

You turn your face into his hair and close your eyes.

In the second month, the baby starts to smile for real.

Real, gummy, lit-up smiles that make Jack feel like some knife's getting twisted deeper and deeper in his chest every time he sees them.

She smiles biggest when Jack talks. It doesn't matter what he's saying. He could be reading off the damn grocery list, and she lights up like he’s singing Sinatra.

You catch him one afternoon standing in the kitchen, holding her in the crook of his arm like it’s second nature now, explaining in a deadly serious tone why the Pittsburgh Steelers are going to break his heart again this year.

“Listen, kid, it’s tradition. You root for them, they let you down. Builds character.”

You grab your phone and snap a picture before he can bark at you not to.

Jack scowls, but you see the faintest twitch of a smile he can’t fight back.

He wants to remember this.

You both do.

The second month also brings the first real fight since bringing her home.

It’s stupid.

It’s exhaustion and hormones and pride, the way all stupid fights are.

You leave the car seat in the wrong spot—tilted funny, not latched all the way into the base—and Jack’s voice cuts sharper than he means it to when he points it out.

“She’s tiny, for Christ’s sake, you can’t just—”

“I’m trying, Jack!” you snap back, tears already stinging because you’ve been running on fumes for weeks and you hate feeling like you’re screwing up.

“Yeah? So am I.”

You’re both breathing hard, the kind of thin, angry breaths that never come from real hatred—only from fear.

Only from love.

You turn away, chest heaving. Jack grips the counter, knuckles white, wrestling the instinct to bark something else, something mean just to end it.

Instead—he exhales hard, walks over to you, and wraps his arms around your shaking shoulders from behind.

You don’t fight him.

You crumble.

"I’m sorry," he says, rough against your ear. "You’re doin’ good. Better than good."

His mouth presses to your temple.

"I’m just... scared, honey." It guts him to say it out loud. It tears something wide open. But it’s the truth.

You turn in his arms, grab two fistfuls of his t-shirt, and bury your face against his chest.

Jack just holds you.

Breathes you in like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.

At her two-month appointment, the pediatrician grins and says she’s perfect.

You hold Jack’s hand in the sterile white room, squeezing so tight he must feel the bones grind together.

He doesn’t pull away.

He squeezes back.

Hard.

In the car afterward, Jack drives one-handed with his other hand curled protectively around your thigh, thumb tracing slow, steady lines into your jeans.

You lean into his shoulder at the stoplights, both of you blinking back tears that neither one of you says a word about.

That night, when the baby finally sleeps and the house goes still, you coax Jack into the shower first, insisting you’ll handle the night feed if she wakes.

He tries to protest.

You kiss the protest right off his mouth, slow and deep, until he’s dizzy from it. Until he forgets how to argue.

And when he comes back. you’re waiting for him in bed, the baby curled between you like the only piece of heaven either of you has ever touched.

Jack hesitates for half a second in the doorway, looking at you like a man seeing home for the first time.

Then he crawls in beside you, tucking you against his chest, wrapping his hand around both you and the baby like he can physically keep the whole world at bay.

"You’re my best thing," you whisper into his skin.

Jack's arms tighten around you instinctively.

You feel the rumble of his voice more than you hear it when he answers.

"You two are mine," he says hoarsely.

"My only thing."

And for the first time since she was born, all three of you sleep through the night.

Together.

Whole.

MONTH THREE

The first real laugh doesn’t come from you.

It doesn’t come from the hundreds of stupid faces you’ve been making, the toys you bought, the songs you sang off-key.

It comes from Jack.

Of course it does.

You’re sitting on the floor one slow Sunday afternoon, sorting laundry, when you hear it—a sharp, surprised little giggle that bubbles out of your daughter’s mouth like she’s just been given the whole damn world.

You snap your head up so fast you almost get whiplash.

Jack’s standing over the bassinet, freshly showered, shirt slung loose over his broad frame, cradling her under the arms and bouncing her so carefully.

She’s looking up at him with those big, bright eyes—utterly delighted just to exist in his arms.

And he’s looking at her like she’s gravity itself.

Jack bounces her again. She squeals, full-body, gummy-mouthed, hands flapping.

Jack grins—a real one, crooked and wide and rare—and chuckles under his breath.

"You like that, huh?" he mutters, voice going soft the way it only ever does for her. "Yeah, you would. Tough little thing."

You don't realize you’re crying until Jack glances over and sees you.

His grin fades, replaced by that worried furrow between his brows you know too well. "Hey. Hey, honey, what's wrong?"

You crawl over the laundry, heart a molten, useless mess, and surge up to kiss him—just grab the collar of his stupid, soft t-shirt and haul him down into a kiss so full of love it knocks both of you sideways.

He catches you with one arm, the baby cradled between you, and lets you sob into his mouth without complaint.

Lets you cling.

Because he knows.

Of course he knows.

"I love you," you breathe against his jaw when you finally surface.

"I love you so much I don't even know what to do with it."

Jack presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

"You’re doin’ fine, baby," he says hoarsely.

"You’re doin’ perfect."

Jack starts pulling on his black scrubs again.

Not full-time.

Not yet.

Just a couple shifts. Just enough to feel like he’s still the guy who shows up when it counts.

You watch from the kitchen doorway, the baby warm against your hip, as he adjusts the fit of his prosthetic with practiced, impatient hands. The grimace flashes across his face for just a second before he smooths it away.

You shift the baby higher, heart aching.

"You don’t have to prove anything, Jack," you say softly, voice thick with sleep and worry."You’re already everything we need."

He exhales slowly through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, his movements stiff with exhaustion.

Then he shakes his head once — small, stubborn, final.

"I gotta do it for me," he says simply.

No drama. No explanation. Just truth.

You don’t argue.

You just step closer, barefoot across the tile, and reach up to cup the back of his neck — that vulnerable, familiar spot you’ve loved for years — pulling him down into a slow, steady kiss.

"Come back safe," you whisper against his mouth.

Jack leans into you for a second longer than he means to, his hand sliding instinctively over the baby's small back, grounding himself in you both.

"Always," he promises, voice rough.

You let him go — but not before slipping a small, folded scrap of paper into the chest pocket of his scrub top when you hug him goodbye.

A stupid, crumpled love note, already warm from your palm.

He doesn’t find it until hours later — after he’s stitched up a kid with a broken bottle wound, after he’s cleaned puke off his boots, after he’s barked orders across the trauma bay like muscle memory.

It’s almost 3 a.m. when he sinks down onto a bench in the stairwell, legs aching, head heavy.

Jack fishes the note out absentmindedly, thinking it’s a scrap of gauze.

But when he unfolds it, it’s your handwriting — messy and rushed, like you couldn't get the words down fast enough:

We miss you. We love you. Come home to us.

Jack stares at it for a long second, the breath catching thick in his chest.

He presses the heel of his hand against his face — hard — willing the burn behind his eyes to back off.

Then he folds the note carefully, tucks it back into the pocket over his heart, and pushes himself upright again.

One more patient.

One more hour.

One step closer to home.

The baby starts reaching this month. Grabbing everything. Blankets. Your hair. Jack’s dog tags, which he sometimes wears tucked under his shirt when he needs grounding.

The first time she grabs them—those worn, cold little pieces of steel swinging free when Jack leans over her bassinet—he freezes.

She wraps her tiny fist around the chain and pulls. Hard.

Jack just stands there, staring down at her like she’s cracked open his chest with one touch.

You come up behind him, pressing your hand to the small of his back, feeling the shudder that goes through him.

"You okay?" you murmur.

Jack swallows.

Nods.

"Yeah," he says roughly.

"Yeah, she’s just... strong."

You curl your arms around him from behind, forehead pressed to the sharp line of his spine.

"You’re allowed to be soft too, y'know," you whisper against him.

"She's allowed to make you soft."

Jack closes his eyes and lets the weight of your words settle into his bones.

Late one night, after a particularly brutal shift, Jack comes home bone-deep exhausted. You meet him at the door, baby asleep on your shoulder, wearing nothing but his oversized hoodie and a pair of fuzzy socks.

Jack stares at you like he’s forgotten how to speak.

You press the baby into his arms without a word.

Then you wrap your arms around his waist, lean your cheek against his chest, and stand there breathing him in—hospital soap, sweat, exhaustion, love—until he finally melts against you.

Until he finally lets himself be held. He presses a kiss into your hair, breathing out a laugh that sounds more like a sob.

"Missed you" he rasps.

MONTH FOUR

Jack notices it before you do.

The shift.

One morning, while you’re wrestling a footie onesie onto the baby and cursing under your breath about the tiny snaps "Who invented these? Satan?", Jack leans against the doorframe, rubbing a hand absently over the back of his neck.

“She’s different,” he says quietly.

You look up, exhaustion written all over your face, and squint at him.

“She’s four months old, Jack. She’s not gonna start driving a car yet.”

But he just shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving her.

“No. She's holdin’ herself different. Stronger.”

You look down—and sure enough, your daughter is sitting up better now, her spine wobbling but proud, little hands planted on her thighs like she’s ready to start throwing punches.

Jack steps forward like he can’t help himself.

He drops to a crouch—careful with the stiff pull of his prosthetic—and cups one big hand around her tiny side, steadying her without overwhelming her.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice breaking a little at the edges.

"Look how tough you are, bean."

You watch him, heart climbing into your throat. Because you see it too. Not just the way she’s changing—but the way he is.

Jack Abbot, who once stood half a step too close to a rooftop edge because the world was too heavy, is now kneeling barefoot on the carpet, whispering praise to their baby girl who thinks the sun rises and sets just for him.

You slip your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your cheek against the crown of his head.

"I love you," you say simply.

Jack kisses the back of your hand.

"I know," he whispers. "And I love you back, honey. 'Til my last damn breath."

This is the month she starts teething.

You survive it through sheer grit, coffee, and the unspoken pact of taking turns walking endless circles around the house with a red-faced, furious, drooling baby in your arms.

Jack handles it the way he handles everything: quietly, stubbornly, with a fierce, aching kind of patience that makes you want to cry and kiss him all at once.

You find him one night at 2:00 a.m., swaying barefoot in the kitchen, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, the baby gnawing furiously on his knuckle while he hums some gravelly, broken tune into her hair.

You lean against the doorway and just watch him, blinking hard against the tears that well up.

Jack catches you watching. Doesn’t say anything—just crooks a finger at you without shifting the baby from his chest.

"Get over here, pretty girl," he rumbles.

You go willingly, sliding into his side, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying your face in the warm, solid plane of his ribs. He smells like soap, exhaustion, and her. Your whole world tucked into one man.

"You’re the best thing that ever happened to us," you whisper into his skin.

By the end of Month Four, she’s rolling over.

You’re standing in the living room when you hear Jack’s startled bark of laughter from the floor.

You whip around to find him sprawled out on his side, laughing helplessly, while your daughter beams at him proudly from her belly, arms and legs kicking like she just won the goddamn Super Bowl.

Jack slaps a hand to his heart dramatically.

"Baby girl, you’re killin' me!" he groans. "You’re growin’ up too fast already. Slow it down, huh? Let your old man catch up."

You cross the room, scooping the baby up into your arms. "You hear that?" you coo into her hair. "You’re makin’ Daddy emotional."

Jack props himself up on an elbow, watching you two with the softest damn look you’ve ever seen on his face. The one he only ever shows you. The one no one at the Pitt would even believe exists.

You kneel down beside him, easing your daughter into his arms again. You watch the way his whole body softens around her without thinking. How his scarred hands are somehow the safest place in the world.

"She’s perfect," you say softly.

Jack leans down and kisses the baby’s forehead, then yours.

"Yeah," he murmurs.

"So’s her mom."

You spend the rest of the evening curled up together on the living room floor—baby between you, laundry forgotten, the whole messy, perfect world you built breathing around you.

And for the first time since she was born—you’re not scared of time passing. You’re just grateful for every second you get.

MONTH FIVE

It happens by accident.

The first time she says it.

Jack’s sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, hair mussed from sleep, still wearing the black t-shirt and flannel pants he stumbled into after pulling an overnight shift.

You’re curled up on the couch, fighting to keep your eyes open, watching the early spring sunlight spill across the floorboards.

Your daughter is sitting between Jack’s legs, gripping his dog tags in one tiny fist, drooling determinedly all over them while Jack pretends to be scandalized.

"Hey, those are government-issued, kid," he drawls, grinning like a fool. "You gonna pay for ‘em with your drool tax?"

And then—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—she looks up at him, eyes bright, and squeals:

“Dada!”

The word is messy. Slurred. Half-drooled through.

But it’s real.

Clear as day.

Jack freezes.

Completely still, like something in him just snapped loose.

You sit up fast. "Jack," you breathe.

He doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

The baby bounces in place, fist still clutching the tags, crowing delightedly: “Dada!”

Jack finally exhales, a broken, wrecked sound like he just got the wind punched out of him. He scoops her into his arms so fast she squeals again, arms flailing, laughing.

He presses her tight against his chest, hands shaking.

"You talkin’ to me, bean?" he rasps, voice thick, kissing the top of her head over and over.

"That me?"

You slide off the couch, crawling across the floor to them, feeling your heart explode into a thousand shimmering pieces inside your chest.

You wrap yourself around both of them—Jack and the baby—your forehead resting against Jack’s stubbled jaw. He’s shaking. Full-body, unstoppable tremors. You just hold him tighter.

"You deserve it," you whisper into his skin.

"You deserve every single thing she sees in you."

Jack swallows hard, arms crushing both of you close.

"You’re my whole damn world," he chokes. "You and her—you’re it."

You kiss the corner of his mouth, the scar on his jaw, the salt of tears he didn’t mean to shed.

And when the baby says it again—“Dada!”—giggling and tugging on his shirt, Jack laughs through the wreckage of himself.

Laughs like he’s got a whole new heart built from the two of you.

This month, Jack comes home earlier when he can. Steals hours when the Pitt is short-staffed but Robby covers.

You make a ritual out of it without even meaning to:

Jack coming through the door, dropping his bag with a heavy thunk, immediately seeking you out first.

He always kisses you first.

Even if the baby’s squealing for him, even if she’s kicking her legs and reaching. He presses his mouth to yours first—hard, desperate, like he’s coming up for air.

Then he takes her from you, murmuring nonsense into her hair, like he can't bear to go another second without her.

You watch him sometimes from the kitchen, heart brimming so full it feels like your ribs can’t contain it.

You let the pasta overboil, the laundry pile up, the emails from your accounting firm stack unanswered.

Because nothing matters more than the way Jack Abbot holds his daughter like she’s sacred. Like she saved him.

Late one night, the baby finally goes down after an hour of slow rocking and whispered lullabies.

You tiptoe out of the nursery, heart thudding like you just disarmed a bomb, and find Jack waiting for you at the end of the hallway.

He’s leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. That tired, crooked half-smile lifts his mouth when he sees you.

"She out?" he murmurs.

You nod, grinning like an idiot. "For now. If we breathe too loud, she’ll start screaming again."

Jack chuckles low under his breath. Then he crooks two fingers at you—small, unmistakable—come here.

You pad over and melt against him without hesitation.

Jack’s arms slide around you automatically, strong and sure, pulling you flush against the solid line of his body.

For a few minutes, you just stand there.

Swaying a little.

Breathing in sync.

Letting the world be small and soft for once.

His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking lazy circles into your hairline. "Miss you," he says roughly, voice low enough that it rumbles against your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him—really look. At the dark shadows under his eyes. The worn edges of him. And the way his whole face softens when he’s looking at you.

"I’m right here," you whisper, sliding your hands up under his old t-shirt to trace the warm skin of his back. "You always got me."

Jack huffs a soft, broken sound and leans down to kiss you.

Slow.

Lingering.

The kind of kiss that says a thousand things neither of you knows how to say out loud.

His fingers flex against your spine, like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s still a little terrified that one day he’ll blink and you’ll be gone.

You deepen the kiss, tipping up onto your toes, tangling your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck. Jack groans quietly into your mouth and tightens his arms around you, lifting you slightly off the ground like it costs him nothing. (You know it does—you know he’s tired and sore—but he doesn’t care.)

He kisses you like you’re oxygen. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.

When he finally pulls back, breathing hard, he presses his forehead to yours and just stands there.

Silent.

Anchored.

You guide him gently down the hall, fingers laced through his. The two of you slip into your bedroom, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear the baby if she wakes.

He eases onto the bed. The prosthetic comes off with a practiced, tired motion — a routine so familiar it barely registers anymore — and he sets it aside without ceremony, like he can't stand the thought of one more thing strapped to him tonight.

You slide into bed beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight. Jack doesn’t hesitate—he hooks an arm around you and pulls you in close, pressing you against the steady, grounding thump of his heart.

With his free hand, he pulls the blanket up over both of you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders like he's sealing you in. Then he drops a slow, tired kiss into your hair, lingering there for a second longer than he means to, breathing you in like you're the only thing anchoring him to the world tonight.

You fall asleep like that—safe. Held. Loved. The two of you breathing slow and steady together, with your whole world sleeping peacefully in the next room

MONTH SIX

The thing about six months is—everything starts feeling bigger.

Her smiles.

Her babbling.

The way she kicks her legs like she’s training for the Olympics whenever Jack comes home from a shift.

And your love for her—your daughter—isn’t something neat and quiet anymore. It’s loud inside your chest. It’s messy.

It’s overwhelming in the best way.

You get the morning to yourself one rare Saturday.

Jack’s still knocked out in bed, sleeping off back-to-back night shifts, and the baby wakes early, squirming and babbling in her crib.

You scoop her up before she can start crying and carry her to the kitchen, heart already aching at how much bigger she feels in your arms.

She babbles nonsense at you while you fix a bottle one-handed, bouncing her on your hip.

You talk back, just as nonsensical, just as giddy.

"Yeah? You think so? I dunno, kiddo, the market’s not looking great for that kind of investment portfolio," you joke, nuzzling her soft cheek.

She giggles—full, wild baby giggles—and you feel it shake right through your ribs. You feed her at the table, tucked into the crook of your arm, sunlight pouring across both of you.

The house is still and warm and safe.

It’s just you and her.

When she finishes, you keep holding her, rocking gently. Her little fingers find your hair and tug, clumsy but affectionate. You laugh quietly and kiss the top of her head.

"You’re my best girl," you whisper.

"My whole heart."

You don’t even hear Jack come in. You just feel the change in the air—the way the world gets steadier when he’s close.

You glance over your shoulder to find him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Sleep-tousled hair. T-shirt wrinkled. And looking at you like you hung the goddamn stars.

"Hey," you murmur.

"Hey," Jack echoes, voice low and rough with sleep.

He crosses the room without hesitation and drops a kiss onto your hair first, then the baby's. Then he sinks into the chair beside you, resting his forearms on the table, eyes drinking you both in like he’s starving for it.

"You’re beautiful, you know that?" he says softly.

It’s not performative.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s just the truth, plain and steady, the way Jack says everything that matters.

You feel your face flush, your chest tighten.

Even after everything—even after the sleepless nights, the spit-up stains, the exhaustion—you still feel beautiful when he says it.

You still believe it.

Because it’s Jack.

And Jack doesn’t waste words.

That afternoon, you all pile into the beat-up Jeep and drive out toward the river, just to get some fresh air.

The baby's strapped into her carrier against Jack's chest, her little arms poking out. He adjusts the straps with the easy, absent-minded care of a man who would walk through fire just to keep her comfortable.

You hold hands as you walk, your fingers laced tight, your body leaning naturally into his.

Jack lifts your joined hands sometimes just to kiss your knuckles, like he can't help it. Like the love is leaking out of him at the seams.

The baby finally goes down around 9:30. You stand frozen outside the nursery door. Across the hall, Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that sleepy, crooked smile that always gives him away.

The 'I’d burn the world down for you' smile.

The one he thinks you don’t catch.

You tiptoe toward him, socks sliding slightly on the hardwood, and he lifts his hand—palm up, waiting. You grin, fitting your fingers into his without hesitation.

He squeezes once, slow and firm.

"Mission accomplished," he murmurs, voice low enough that it doesn't even ripple the heavy quiet of the house.

You snort quietly.

"One kid. One bedtime. And it almost killed us."

Jack tugs you gently toward the kitchen. "Almost," he says, mock serious. "But not quite. ‘Cause you married a damn machine, sweetheart."

You roll your eyes so hard you almost sprain something.

"A machine who just bribed a six-month-old with four rounds of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and half a pack of graham crackers?"

Jack smirks as he grabs two beers from the fridge—one for him, one he opens and hands to you like he’s presenting you with fine wine instead of a Sam Adams.

"A win’s a win, pretty girl. Don’t question the strategy."

You lean your elbows on the counter, taking a long pull from the bottle, watching him. Loose, hair messy. T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. Grinning at you like he’s just happy you’re standing in the same room breathing.

He sets his beer down, then leans in until his forehead bumps yours lightly. "Still married to me," he murmurs, like it’s some grand, ridiculous miracle. "Still puttin’ up with my ass."

"Somebody’s gotta," you tease, nose brushing his. "Can't let you run around unsupervised. You’d live on black coffee and beef jerky."

Jack laughs, low and warm, and drops a quick kiss onto your mouth—chaste, easy. But you feel the zing of it anyway.

The way you always do with him.

Like the earth tilting a little under your feet.

You set your beer down blindly and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Jack goes willingly, hands sliding low around your hips, thumbs slipping under the hem of your sleep shirt to find bare skin.

He grins against your mouth, voice rough with teasing. "Careful, honey. House is quiet. Baby’s asleep. Husband’s feelin’ reckless."

You tilt your head back a little, laughing softly.

"Oh yeah? What exactly is reckless gonna look like?"

Jack leans in again, bumping your nose with his. "Thinkin’ about throwin’ you over my shoulder. Maybe take you to the bedroom. Show you you’re still my girl first and her mom second."

You feel it—the way your heart slams against your ribs, the way heat flares under your skin.

God, you missed this.

Missed him like this—teasing and full of life and all that wrecking ball love aimed straight at you.

You tug his shirt higher, fingers skimming the hard plane of his back. "You’re all talk, Dr. Abbot," you whisper. "You forget—I know you."

Jack’s grin turns dangerous. "You sure about that, honey?"

Before you can answer, he sweeps you off your feet with one fast, practiced move—arms under your thighs, lifting you onto the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing.

You gasp, laughing breathlessly as your beer bottle clatters harmlessly.

Jack crowds into your space, standing between your knees, hands braced on either side of you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, burning dark under the dim kitchen light.

"You’re still my girl," he says, voice dropping.

"Always gonna be."

He kisses you then—and it’s nothing like polite.

It’s deep, dirty, teeth dragging gently against your lower lip before his mouth seals over yours in a kiss so consuming it makes you whimper low in your throat.

Jack groans in answer, sliding his hands up under your shirt, palms rough and reverent over your ribs, your back, the soft curve of your waist.

You clutch at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer, your body arching into him on instinct.

The kiss goes on and on—long, slow, greedy—like he’s trying to make up for every second the two of you have been too tired, too busy, too wrapped up in being parents to just be husband and wife.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, faces flushed, chests heaving.

"Love you," he murmurs, so low and wrecked you almost cry. "More now than the day I married you. More every damn day."

You kiss him again, softer this time, and thread your fingers through his.

"Same, Jack," you whisper. "Same. Always."

Jack presses another kiss to your temple, then another to your cheekbone, then one to the corner of your mouth—because he’s a man who doesn’t know how to stop once he starts.

And you let him.

You let him kiss you like he’s starving, let him hold you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

Because you are.

You always have been.

MONTH SEVEN

The late afternoon light spills golden across the living room, catching on the scattered toys and half-folded laundry.

Jack’s flat on the carpet, army-crawling after your daughter, who’s shrieking with laughter as she belly-flops toward her stuffed dinosaur.

"And she’s on the move!" Jack calls, his voice exaggerated and playful, dragging himself forward with his arms, shifting his weight carefully off his prosthetic like it’s second nature now.

Your daughter lets out a victorious squeal as she clutches the dinosaur, kicking her legs against the carpet.

Jack grins up at you from the floor, flushed and a little breathless. "Looks like the rookie’s got me beat," he says, dragging himself into a full, lazy sprawl. "Think she’s got a better crawl time than I ever did."

You’re sitting on the couch, your legs tucked under you, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

"Maybe if you had a binky and a stuffed T-Rex in basic, you would’ve made it further," you tease.

Jack barks a laugh, slow and rumbling.

"You tryin’ to start something, honey?" he says, rolling onto his good knee and levering himself upright in that smooth, practiced motion he’s mastered without fanfare.

"You got the mouth for it."

You arch a brow, playful.

"You wouldn't dare."

Jack tilts his head, that cocky, lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. "Wanna bet?"

Before you can move, he lunges—slow enough for you to see it coming, fast enough that you shriek anyway, scrambling off the couch.

You dart for the hallway, laughing breathlessly. Jack’s heavy footfalls thud behind you—the lighter footstep mixing with the solid stomp—and you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe as he catches you around the waist.

You squeal, kicking your legs uselessly as he lifts you, hauling you easily against his chest.

"Gotcha," he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck, his voice a low, delighted growl.

You slump against him, laughing helplessly, your heart hammering in your chest.

His hands are warm on your hips, steady and strong. Jack chuckles low, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

"Raincheck," he murmurs against your skin. "Handle her first. Then you’re all mine."

It takes an hour to get her down.

A bottle.

Three lullabies.

Some quiet rocking with Jack swaying on his feet, his body moving instinctively to keep her settled. You watch him from the nursery door, heart aching so sweetly it hurts—the way he holds her, the way his whole body softens when she finally, finally gives in to sleep.

When he lays her gently in the crib and brushes a calloused knuckle over her cheek, you know you’re done for.

Jack straightens slowly, adjusting his balance before he turns back toward you. He’s flushed and tired and barefoot, in an old black t-shirt and sweats—and he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

You take his hand silently.

He lets you.

Lets you pull him down the hall, fingers laced tight into yours.

The second you’re both inside the bedroom, Jack tugs you to a stop.

"You sure?" he says, voice low, serious. "Honey... we don’t gotta rush. You’re tired, I know—"

You cut him off with a kiss.

Hard.

Needy.

Full of every word you can’t fit into your mouth fast enough.

Jack groans low in his chest and lifts you carefully, steadying you against him before easing you back onto the bed.

No rush.

No slam.

Just the kind of rough, reverent touch that only he knows how to give you.

He crawls over you slowly, moving like he’s already half-drunk on you. His weight shifts naturally off the prosthetic, instinctive after all these years—but this time, he pauses. Sits back on his heels, eyes never leaving yours.

Wordlessly, Jack reaches down and unclips the prosthetic, setting it aside with a soft thud against the floor.

He exhales through his nose, rough and steady, the kind of sound he only makes when he’s dropping the last of his defenses. When it’s just you and him and nothing else that matters.

Then he’s back over you, heavier now, hotter, real in a way that steals the breath from your lungs.

Jack fits himself between your thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight, his hands bracing on either side of your head.

"You good, baby?" he mutters, voice gravel-thick, the words brushing warm against your mouth.

You nod, already arching up into him, already lost.

Jack smiles—slow, crooked, hungry—and kisses you like a man who’s got nowhere else to be. His hands slide under your shirt, fingers rough and reverent against your skin.

"You’re so goddamn beautiful," he mutters, voice wrecked.

"Been drivin' me crazy all day. Chasin’ you around the house like a damn fool."

You giggle breathlessly into his mouth, tugging his shirt off over his head.

Jack chuckles low, dragging your sleep shirt up inch by inch, kissing every new patch of skin he uncovers.

He’s warm and solid and stupidly good at this—kissing you until you’re panting, until you’re squirming under him, until you’re gasping his name.

"You’re mine," he murmurs against your skin. "Still my girl. Always."

When he finally slides inside you, it’s slow.

Deep.

A rhythm he sets without thinking—steady, grounded, devastating.

You clutch at his shoulders, your nails scraping gently over the broad planes of his back. Jack buries his face in your neck, groaning low as he rocks into you, one hand sliding under your thigh to angle you closer, deeper, better.

"God, baby," he pants. "Feels so good—always you, only you—"

You arch into him, every nerve ending blazing, every breath catching.

He kisses you like it’s the first time.

Like it’s the last time.

Like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

You come apart first—soft, wrecked, clinging to him—and Jack follows with a groan that sounds like your name shattered across his lips.

He stays there, breathing hard against your skin, his body heavy and warm and so damn real on top of you.

You thread your fingers through his messy hair, stroking gently. Jack hums low, shifting carefully so he’s not crushing you, pulling you into his side, tucking your head under his chin.

"You’re my whole world," he whispers, voice cracking. "You and her. Always."

You kiss the center of his chest, right over his hammering heart.

"You’re ours too," you whisper back. "Always."

MONTH EIGHT

The house is so quiet in the early mornings now.

Jack is always the first one up. Not because he has to be—but because he wants to be.

You find him almost every morning sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, the baby in his lap.

Sometimes he’s got her pressed against his chest, one hand wrapped completely around her little body.

Sometimes he’s reading aloud from whatever’s nearby—sports page, medical journal, the back of a cereal box.

This morning, it’s the latter. Jack’s deep voice rumbles through a very serious dramatic reading of the Lucky Charms ingredients list.

You lean against the doorway, grinning like an idiot, just watching them. Watching the way he sips his coffee absently between sentences, the way the baby clutches a fistful of his t-shirt, drooling contentedly.

The way Jack drops a kiss onto her hair every couple minutes without even realizing he’s doing it.

This is what love looks like, you think. This is what home feels like.

It happens on a Sunday morning.

One of those soft, slow days where the house smells like coffee and pancakes and the baby’s shrieking happily in her bouncer.

Jack’s at the stove, wearing nothing but flannel pajama pants and an old army t-shirt, trying to flip pancakes while holding a spatula and a coffee mug at the same time.

You’re sitting on the counter, swinging your legs, wearing Jack’s hoodie and absolutely no pants, grinning like an idiot.

"You're gonna burn those," you warn, sipping your coffee.

Jack glances over his shoulder, smirking.

"Negative, pretty girl. This is controlled chaos."

The second he turns back, the pancake flops halfway out of the pan, folding over itself in a sad, gooey mess.

You laugh so hard you almost spit out your coffee. Jack groans dramatically, setting down the spatula and mock-bowing to the baby.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he says solemnly. "Your breakfast has been compromised."

The baby claps her hands excitedly.

And then—clear as a bell—she looks straight at you and says, "Mama!"

You freeze.

Jack freezes.

The whole house freezes.

Your coffee cup slips out of your hands onto the counter with a thunk. Jack turns, eyes wide, mouth falling open in slow motion.

"Did she—?" he croaks.

"Did you—?"

You slide off the counter, rushing over, scooping her up in your arms, laughing and crying all at once.

"Say it again, baby," you whisper, beaming through your tears.

And sure enough, your daughter beams back at you, kicking her little legs, babbling happily: "Mama! Mama!"

Jack’s standing frozen by the stove, coffee mug forgotten in his hand, just staring at the two of you. His face is flushed, his eyes suspiciously bright.

You turn toward him, bouncing your daughter on your hip.

"Jack," you laugh, voice thick.

"She said it! She really said it—"

You don’t even finish. Jack’s across the room in three strides, careful not to trip on the rug, pulling you both into his arms.

He hugs you so tight you can barely breathe, his head dropping to your shoulder, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

"I’m so goddamn proud of you," he mutters hoarsely, pressing a kiss into your hair, then one to your daughter’s head.

"So proud of my girls."

You blink up at him, overwhelmed with love, cupping his face in your hand. Jack leans into your touch shamelessly, his lashes lowering, his mouth soft and wrecked.

"Mama," the baby chirps again, and Jack laughs—low and broken and full of more joy than you’ve ever heard from him.

"Yeah, that’s right, bean," he whispers. "That’s your mama. Best damn one in the world."

You end up on the couch in a heap—Jack stretched out with you sprawled half on top of him, the baby curled between you, all three of you breathing each other in.

It’s messy.

It’s imperfect.

It’s everything.

The first real crisp Saturday, Jack piles you both into the Jeep.

No agenda. Just air. Leaves. Time.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to hold yours across the console.

The baby babbles in her car seat, kicking her little feet at the window, and Jack keeps glancing at her in the mirror with that soft, wrecked look you’ve come to recognize.

You end up at a small park—just woods and trails and a rickety playground. Jack lifts her out of the car seat with the same appreciation he uses for the most fragile patients.

Presses his forehead to hers.

"You ready to see the world, little bean?" he whispers.

You walk the trails together, Jack keeping her tucked close to his chest, narrating everything he sees: "This is a maple tree, sweetheart. Turns red in October. Looks like the whole damn world’s on fire when it hits right."

"These are squirrels. Little thieves. Don’t trust ‘em."

You laugh the whole time, half at him, half at the sheer overwhelming joy of watching the two people you love most in the world wrapped up in each other.

Jack pulls you into a kiss when you least expect it—deep, slow, hungry—with the baby giggling between you.

Like he can’t help it.

Like loving you is as natural to him as breathing.

MONTH NINE

Jack’s the one who insists on it.

You catch him late one night scrolling through his phone in bed, looking at local pumpkin patches like he’s planning a heist.

You smother a laugh into his shoulder.

"You serious about this, Abbot?"

Jack snorts.

"First Halloween. First pumpkin. Non-negotiable."

He books it two days later—drives you both out on a crisp Saturday, one hand on the wheel, the other resting over your knee the whole time. Your daughter’s bundled in a little fleece onesie with bear ears on the hood, clutching the strap of her car seat and babbling to herself.

When you get there, Jack’s all in.

Wheeling the wagon.

Letting her "choose" a pumpkin by the scientific method of whichever one she tries to eat first.

Crouching slow and careful so she can sit in a pile of leaves while he snaps a thousand photos on his phone like a proud dad on steroids.

At one point you turn around and find Jack sitting in the dirt, legs sprawled out, your daughter crawling all over him—tugging at his hoodie strings, trying to steal his hat.

He’s laughing, full and unguarded, his face lit up in a way that makes your heart physically ache.

It happens when you’re least expecting it. Which, you’re starting to realize, is how all the big moments happen.

You’re doing dishes in the kitchen. Jack’s sitting on the floor, flipping through a toy catalog someone left at the nurses' station, pretending to be very serious about Christmas gift planning.

The baby’s on her playmat, babbling to herself, surrounded by stuffed animals and teethers.

You walk into the living room—and freeze.

She’s got her tiny hands braced on the couch. Her legs wobble dangerously under her.

But somehow—God, somehow—she pulls herself upright.

Your mouth drops open.

"Jack—"

Jack’s eyes are wide, almost panicked.

Like if he blinks, he’ll miss it.

Like it’s the most fragile miracle in the world.

She wobbles, Jack lunges—and catches her gently before she tips.

"That’s my girl! You’re gonna take over the world!"

You sit down hard on the couch, heart pounding, grinning so wide your face hurts. Jack beams at you over her head, and you swear to God his eyes are shiny.

He won’t admit it.

But you know.

You both pretend it’s for her.

It’s not.

It’s for you and Jack.

Jack spends hours on the couch sketching costume ideas like he’s designing a battle plan.

Pirates?

Farmers?

Superheroes?

Jack suggests "trauma surgeons," but you veto it when he tries to strap a fake scalpel to the baby’s diaper bag.

You finally settle on a simple one: A little pumpkin suit for her.

You and Jack wear matching orange hoodies.

Jack grumbles, but secretly loves it—you can tell by the way he keeps brushing his knuckles against your side every time you get close.

At the neighbor’s block party, Jack holds her the whole time, proudly accepting compliments like he personally grew her in the backyard.

He lets her chew on his hoodie string.

Lets her grab fistfuls of his hair.

Lets her shriek in his ear without flinching.

Later, back home, you find him sitting on the floor in the nursery with her asleep on his chest—both of them still wearing their pumpkin outfits.

MONTH TEN

The front yard was Jack’s idea.

"You can’t stay cooped up in the house forever, bean," he tells her, propping the storm door open with his boot while he adjusts the old quilt he spread out over the browning fall grass.

"You gotta touch some dirt sometime. It's character-building."

You smile from the porch, arms folded loosely over your chest, heart full to the point of aching. It’s cold enough that you’re both bundled up—Jack in an old hoodie and jeans, your daughter in a too-puffy jacket that makes her arms stick out like a tiny scarecrow.

Jack crouches carefully. He sets her down on the quilt.

She sits there for a second, blinking up at him.

Then at you.

Then down at the crinkling, crunchy leaves scattered across the grass. Jack tosses her one—big and orange, almost bigger than her face. She squeals, clutching it in both hands, waving it around like a victory flag.

You laugh quietly.

Jack turns his head, grinning that slow, easy grin that still knocks the breath out of you.

And when he turns back—it happens.

She pushes herself upright.

Wobbly.

Determined.

Like the whole world’s just waiting for her to take it.

Jack freezes, one hand still half-extended like he was about to offer her another leaf.

You watch, breathless, from the porch—hands fisted in the sleeves of your sweatshirt, heart pounding.

And then—one step. Another.

Toward him.

Toward Jack.

Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stays absolutely still, arms hanging loose at his sides, his whole body vibrating with the effort not to rush forward and grab her.

When she stumbles into him—three full steps later—he scoops her up so fast you barely see it happen.

Lifts her high into the air, spinning once under the porch light, laughing that full, broken, wrecked-little-boy laugh you only hear when he’s completely undone.

"That’s my tough girl," he breathes, pressing kiss after kiss into her pink cheeks. "God, you’re somethin’ else, baby bean."

He tips his head back toward you, still holding her high against his chest—and you see it.

The way his mouth is trembling.

The way his eyes are suspiciously bright, blinking hard.

Jack Abbot, who’s been shot at, seen death on rooftops and in ER trauma bays—wrecked into soft, helpless pieces by a pair of wobbly baby legs and three whole steps.

You jump down off the porch without even thinking, running toward them, wrapping yourself around them both.

Jack catches you one-armed, pressing his face into your hair, breathing hard.

"You see that?" he mutters against you, voice rough and low. "She chose me. Took her first steps to me."

You nod, laughing through tears.

"I saw it, Jack," you whisper back. "I saw everything."

The first real cold snap hits two weeks later.

Jack makes a production out of it—dragging down tubs of winter clothes from the attic, testing the space heater, checking the baby monitor batteries like you’re preparing for the Arctic.

You find him one evening sitting on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by a sea of tiny coats, mittens, hats, and boots.

The baby’s crawling around giggling, trying to chew on every hat she can get her hands on.

Jack’s holding up a toddler-sized snowsuit with a deeply skeptical expression.

"She’s gonna look like a marshmallow," he mutters. "Can she even breathe in this?"

You laugh, sitting down beside him. "You’re gonna be that dad, huh?" you tease, bumping his shoulder. "The one who brings her to preschool wearing a parka in 40 degrees?"

Jack lifts his chin stubbornly. "Better too warm than too cold."

He glances at the baby trying to fit an entire mitten in her mouth and grins. "Besides. She’s gotta survive Pittsburgh winter. It’s a rite of passage."

You didn’t plan on getting a tree that day.

Jack says it’s too early. You agree.

But when you drive past the little lot tucked between the church and the fire station—when you see the tiny white lights strung overhead—you both say nothing.

Just look at each other.

And turn in without a word.

Jack lifts the baby out of her car seat, tucking her close against his chest inside his coat. You wander through the rows slowly, letting her grab fistfuls of pine needles, letting Jack argue seriously with the teenager working the lot about which tree "looks the most structurally sound."

You settle on a small, sturdy one.

Jack ties it to the roof of the Jeep himself, refusing help.

You know better than to argue—watching him knot the ropes with steady, competent hands, his mouth set in that focused line you love so much.

When you get home, he lifts the baby onto his shoulders and lets her "help" you string lights—her squealing laughter echoing off the walls.

Jack catches your hand as you walk past, tugging you into his side.

"We’re makin’ a good life, huh, pretty girl?" he murmurs.

"One hell of a good life."

MONTH ELEVEN

You didn't plan to make a big deal out of it.

First Christmas.

She's too young to remember.

That's what you kept telling yourselves.

But Jack...he can't help himself.

You find him at the kitchen table on Christmas Eve, hunched over a roll of wrapping paper, tongue poking out slightly as he wrestles with Scotch tape and a box that’s clearly too big for its contents.

The tree glows in the corner of the living room, soft and gold, the whole house smelling like pine and cinnamon.

Your daughter babbles from her playpen, chewing on a crinkly ribbon Jack forgot to hide. Jack just shakes his head fondly and lets her.

When he sees you standing there, arms crossed and smiling, he tries to scowl. Fails miserably.

"What?" he mutters, sticking another crooked piece of tape down. "Santa’s gotta show up somehow."

You cross the room, sliding your arms around his shoulders from behind, resting your chin on top of his head.

"You’re gonna ruin her for real Christmases when she’s older," you murmur against his hair. "Nothing’s ever gonna top this."

Jack hums low in his throat, one hand reaching up to squeeze your forearm where it crosses his chest. "Good," he says simply.

"I don’t want her ever thinkin' she’s gotta go lookin’ for somethin' better. She’s already got everything she needs."

It’s still dark when you feel him stir.

Jack’s body slides out of bed carefully, trying not to wake you. You crack one eye open and watch him pad silently to the nursery in sweatpants and a ratty old Steelers hoodie.

You follow a minute later, wrapping a blanket around yourself.

You catch the scene from the hallway: Jack crouched low by the crib, one big hand resting gently on the bars, his head bowed.

Not saying anything.

Just... being there.

Breathing her in.

He lifts her slowly, carefully, pressing his face into her hair, and you hear it—the soft, wrecked sound he makes when she cuddles into him without hesitation.

"Hey, bean," he whispers, voice cracking.

"Merry Christmas, baby girl."

You stand there, hand pressed to your mouth, heart splitting wide open.

Jack turns finally, cradling her tight against his chest. His eyes find yours in the half-light. And even though he doesn’t say anything, you hear it clear as day:

Thank you. Thank you for her. Thank you for this. Thank you for choosing him.

It starts snowing after breakfast. Big, lazy flakes drifting down outside the windows, blanketing the world in white.

Jack builds a fire in the living room fireplace, cursing gently under his breath when it smokes at first.

You bundle the baby in a ridiculous red-and-white onesie covered in tiny reindeer and sit her in the middle of the couch with a pile of pillows on either side like she's royalty.

Jack flops down beside her with a grunt, stretching out his long legs and tilting his head back to watch the snow.

The fire crackles low. The tree lights blink softly. Your daughter babbles, chewing happily on the sleeve of her onesie. You settle into Jack’s side, his arm automatically looping around your shoulders.

He kisses your temple without thinking. Without needing to.

"You warm enough, pretty girl?" he murmurs. "Got everything you need?"

You don’t answer.

You just nod, curling closer into him, breathing in the scent of smoke and pine and Jack. Because you do. You really, truly do.

The baby sleeps early, worn out by too many presents, too many relatives, too much excitement.

You and Jack stay up late.

Too late.

Sitting on the living room floor like teenagers, backs against the couch, drinking hot chocolate and eating the burnt-edge cookies you forgot to take out of the oven in time.

You talk about stupid things at first. Work. Sports. Whether the baby's going to end up a hockey player or a piano prodigy.

And then Jack gets quiet. Staring into the fire. "You ever think it’d be like this?" he asks finally, voice low and rough. "Back then?"

You know what he means.

Back when the world was a lot harder.

When he never thought he’d make it past thirty.

When you weren’t even sure you believed in happy endings.

You slide your hand into his, threading your fingers tight.

"No," you whisper. "Not like this." You turn your head, smiling soft against the firelight. "Better."

Jack squeezes your hand once, hard, and you feel him nod. Feel him breathe. Feel him let it in. The good. The love. The life he never thought he deserved.

MONTH TWELVE

The holidays are over. The tree’s gone. The stockings are packed away. The house feels a little empty without all the lights and glitter, but honestly?

You’re relieved.

You and Jack have been circling the same conversation for two weeks now: How big should her first birthday be?

Jack leans over the kitchen counter one evening, thumbing through a battered old notebook, his mouth pulled into that stubborn line he gets when he’s pretending to be casual but is actually spiraling.

"I mean..." he says, flipping a page. "We could just do somethin' small. Family. Cake. A couple of her toys. No big deal."

You lift an eyebrow at him.

"And by ‘small’ you mean...?"

Jack shrugs, grinning sheepishly.

"Maybe invite, like, Shen. Dana. Robby. Princess. Perlah. Ellis. Collins. Langdon. McKay. And maybe the rookies if they don't annoy me"

You snort, dropping into the chair across from him.

"So, basically... the entire Pitt."

Jack smirks. "You wanna tell Ellis she’s not invited to her honorary niece’s first birthday?" He taps his pen on the paper. "'Cause I’m not getting in the middle of that one, pretty girl."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath.

"You’re impossible."

Jack leans across the counter, catching your chin lightly between his thumb and knuckle, tilting your face up.

"You love me anyway."

The January sky is sharp and dark, heavy with the kind of cold that makes the world feel smaller.

You find Jack in the nursery after you put the baby down—sitting in the old rocking chair, one foot nudging the floor in a slow rhythm. He’s staring at the crib. Silent. Still.

You lean against the doorway, watching him. Watching the way the weight of the year—the weight of love—settles heavy over his broad shoulders.

Jack finally looks up, catching your eye. His voice is low, rough with something he hasn’t figured out how to say yet.

"You remember..." He clears his throat. "You remember when we brought her home?"

You nod, stepping quietly into the room. Press your hand to the back of his neck, feeling the tension there. The life humming under his skin.

"I didn’t know what the hell I was doin'," Jack mutters, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Didn’t know if I deserved her. If I deserved you."

You slide your fingers through his hair, soft and sure.

Jack leans into it like he can’t help himself.

"You do," you whisper. "You deserve all of it, Jack. You always have."

He pulls you into his lap then, wrapping his arms around your waist, tucking his face into your neck. Holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

And maybe you are.

Maybe you always will be.

The day of her birthday dawns cold and gray, the streets dusted with a thin layer of January snow.

You wake up to Jack already downstairs, setting up balloons and streamers with the grim determination of a man trying to fix a leaky roof mid-thunderstorm.

You find him half-wrestling a giant "1" balloon into the living room, muttering curses under his breath when it refuses to cooperate.

"You good, champ?" you tease, sipping your coffee.

Jack glares at you over the top of the balloon, but there’s no heat in it. Only love. Only joy. Only him.

"You wanna fight the damn helium next?" he mutters, half-laughing as he pins the balloon to the back of a chair.

The party is perfect.

Small, chaotic, full of noise and warmth.

The Pitt crew shows up—Dana with an armful of presents, Robby with some ridiculous talking toy that immediately gets banned to the garage after ten minutes, Shen slipping Jack a flask when he thinks you’re not looking.

Jack never puts her down.

Not really.

He lets her toddle a little—lets her show off the new steps she’s so proud of—but he’s always within reach. Always there to catch her.

You cut the cake.

She smashes her tiny fists into the frosting with a triumphant shriek. Everyone cheers. Jack laughs so hard he almost drops the camera.

Later, when the guests trickle out and the house quiets, you find Jack standing in the kitchen, wiping down the counters like he can scrub the day into permanence.

He turns when he hears you, setting the rag down. Looks at you with that look—the one he only ever gives you. The one that says everything without a single word.

You cross the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest.

Jack hugs you back immediately, fiercely. Kisses your hair. "She’s gonna be so damn good, honey," he murmurs against your crown. "You’re makin’ sure of that."

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "You too, Jack," you whisper. "You’re the best thing she’ll ever know."

"Can’t believe we made it a year," he murmurs. "Can’t believe we get to keep doin’ this."

"Best thing we ever did." you whisper.

[moonlightdreamzz]

“Let’s make a movie, baby.” — ENHYPEN

SUMMARY. Remember that time—the night before he had to leave for tour, when you grabbed your boyfriend’s phone while he was in it, and started recording? For memories sake?

GENRE. Nothing short of whorish $mut.

THEMES. Established!Relationship, You’re a naughty, naughty girl :). Cuss words per usual

AUTHOR’S NOTE. As you guys know, the parasite in me wrote this, not me. Enjoy.

HEESEUNG

He was too lost in you—eyes squeezed tighter than your pussy around him, thrusts sloppier than the head you just gave him—to even notice you reaching for his phone at first.

How could you two go two whole months without this? The comforting weight of his stomach pressed against your back, the delicious stretch of him inside you, the way he barely grazed your spot—just enough to make you needy for more.

“Hee…” you whimper, voice breaking to match the rhythm of his thrusts. You press record, your half-lidded eyes flickering open just enough to capture what you’ve never been able to see before.

And so does he.

His eyes, already heavy with lust, darken the moment he realizes what you’re doing—what you’ve done. You’re filming him. On his phone. And just like that, something clicks.

His gaze locks onto his own reflection—low, pussy drunk, and seductive—as if to say, it’s showtime.

His right hand catches your jaw, tilting your face toward the camera, and suddenly, he’s fucking you like he has something to prove.

“You wanna leave me with a memory, hm?” He grunts, each word punctuated with a sharp thrust. “Then I’m gonna leave you with my cum in your pussy, baby.”

The smirk you had falters immediately. Your body betrays you—your mouth gasps at the first deep stroke, your fingers clutching the phone desperately as he hits your spot over and over and over again.

He presses his lips against yours, swallowing every broken moan, tasting the mess he’s turning you into. The kiss is sloppy, tongues sliding against each other, but it doesn’t matter—you’re both too far gone.

Your arms are shaking. The phone feels heavier with every thrust, but you refuse to let go.

And Heeseung notices.

He pulls away from your lips, smirking into the camera before glancing down at you. Your head falls limp in his grip just as he decides he’s done teasing—no more grazing your spot, no more holding back.

Now, he’s fucking you like he means it.

Your moans cut off into choked gasps as your body jerks, waves of pleasure building fast, and he’s laughing.

Yes, laughing.

You thought he was fucking you as hard as he could. He wasn’t.

And now, as you struggle to form a single coherent thought, as your mouth hangs open, drool pooling onto his forearm, and your legs shake violently around him—he knows it.

Heeseung looks straight into the camera like the cocky bastard he is, watching with deep satisfaction as you finally break—cumming all over his cock.

Jay

The two of you haven’t broken eye contact once since he pressed himself inside you.

His rhythm is steady, each slow, deliberate thrust sending heat crawling up your spine. His hands move over your skin gently, as if he’s savoring every second of you beneath him. There’s no rush—just the deep, quiet intimacy of him wrapped around you, inside you, owning you in every way.

“I’m going to miss you so much, baby.”

The words slip from his lips before he can stop them, his breath coming out shaky. He’s trying to keep it together—trying not to fall apart inside you right now—but you’re so wet, so fucking perfect around him, that every time he pulls out, your arousal drips onto his cock, making everything even messier.

“Mhm,” he groans at the feeling, his eyes fluttering briefly, his resolve crumbling.

You nod, but your attention shifts—you reach for his phone resting on the desk beside the bed.

For the first time tonight, his focus breaks from yours. His thrusts slow to a halt, brows furrowing as he watches you navigate to the camera.

“What are you doing?” he whispers, cheek brushing against yours as his eyes lock onto the screen.

And fuck—seeing himself on top of you, his body covering yours so perfectly, your legs tangled together, the way you look beneath him, utterly wrecked—it knocks the air from his lungs.

This is where you belong.

“Keep fucking me,” you purr, hitting record before turning back to him, running your tongue slowly up his jaw.

You feel it immediately. The way his heart starts pounding against your chest, the way his breath catches. For a moment, he’s frozen.

You know him.

He’s debating. Too caught off guard to think straight, too turned on to deny how fucking hot this is.

But when you buck your hips up at him—impatient, needy, determined—it’s over.

He lets out a low, shaky exhale.

“Keep fucking you?” he murmurs, voice dangerous, his eyes flickering from the screen back to you. “That’s what you want, baby? You wanna make a movie with me?”

“Mhm,” you whimper, melting into him, arms wrapping around his broad shoulders.

That’s all he needs to hear.

Jay repositions, gripping your waist firmly before rolling his hips deep into you, his slow, calculated strokes picking up right where they left off—except now, there’s something different.

Something carnal.

Something desperate.

Every movement feels like he’s drowning in you, like he’s trying to memorize you, burn this moment into his brain before the night is over.

His forehead presses against yours, sweat beading at his temple, his breath heavy, and then—his lips find yours.

But it’s not just a kiss.

It’s hungry, messy, so deep and intoxicating that your grip on the phone nearly slips. His tongue slides past your lips, exploring your mouth with a possessiveness that sends shivers down your spine. You can taste the heat between you—the need, the addiction, the way his desire for you is threatening to swallow him whole.

And when your moans start spilling out, mixing with his, when your bodies move in sync, when the air between you becomes so thick with tension it’s unbearable—he loses himself completely.

Jay’s grip on your hips tightens, his thrusts turning harder, faster, as if he’s holding onto you for dear life. The desperation in his movements, in the way he’s clinging to you, in the way he presses himself closer, deeper, stronger—it all tells you exactly what he can’t say out loud.

This isn’t just about sex.

This is him worshipping you.

And judging by the way your body is already unraveling beneath him, how your fingers claw into his back, how you gasp his name, he knows you feel it too.

Jake

The two of you were always so in sync, and right now, it’s no different. You reach for his phone, fingers brushing the screen, but before you can even get a grip on it, Jake’s hand is already there. His movements are fluid, controlled—his thumb already swiping across the screen, unlocking it like he’s done it a hundred times before, with the same quiet confidence that always radiates from him.

“You want to record this, huh?” he murmurs, voice steady, with that teasing edge you love. There’s no question in his tone, only the kind of quiet understanding that makes your pulse quicken. He doesn’t even need to ask if you’re sure. His gaze is dark, expectant, as he angles the phone, positioning it with a practiced hand. The smirk on his lips tells you this wasn’t something you had to suggest—he had already thought of it before you did.

You open your mouth to say something, but the words die in your throat as he leans in, just close enough for you to feel his breath against your ear. “Don’t worry, baby. I got us covered,” he whispers, his voice rich and low, sending a shiver down your spine. There’s something about the way he’s in control, about how he already knows what you want before you even have to ask, that makes everything feel even more intimate, more thrilling.

He presses a soft kiss to the curve of your jaw, his lips moving slowly down your neck, tracing a path of warmth that lingers long after he’s pulled away. Meanwhile, his hand slips to your waist, pulling you in closer, just like he knows you want him to. You can’t help but melt against him, your breath hitching as you feel him respond to the subtle shift in your body. His touch becomes deliberate, as if he’s savoring every second of this, every inch of skin he’s allowed to claim.

You don’t wait for him to take control completely. Instead, you lean back slightly, giving him a mockingly innocent look before you tease, “You know, this is all for you, right?”

He meets your eyes then, his expression soft yet burning with intensity. The phone is positioned just right, the screen capturing both your faces, but there’s something in the way he looks at you now—something deeper than desire. It’s a look that says he’s not just giving you a memory for later. He’s creating a moment between you two, one that’s real and raw and completely consumed with the heat of the now.

Without breaking eye contact, he moves again, his lips capturing yours in a kiss so slow, it feels like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. His body presses against yours, slow, controlled—yet there’s an undeniable urgency, the rhythm of your connection building like a steady tide. He’s savoring the way you respond to him, the way you press back into him, and the way his own pulse quickens, matching yours.

His fingers slip beneath your shirt, tracing the outline of your spine, each touch deliberate and slow. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs between kisses, voice thick with desire. “So fucking beautiful.” The phone captures everything—your flushed face, his darkened gaze, the quiet sounds of your breaths filling the space around you. The knowledge that this moment is being preserved only makes everything feel even more intense, more intimate.

“It’s all mine? Hm?” He questions, his keeping your legs open and sturdy.

“Every inch.” You chuckle seductively.

Sunghoon

Sunghoon’s rhythm is steady, his pace slow, deep, and controlled.

He’s taking his time with you—dragging it out, making every thrust count, savoring the way you squeeze around him like you never want to let him go.

And fuck, you don’t.

Not when this is the last time you’ll have him like this for weeks—maybe months.

His grip on your waist tightens, his movements fluid, effortless, like he knows exactly how to pull you apart. The way his jaw clenches, his brows furrow—he’s focused, determined, but there’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he’s just as caught up in this as you are.

And that’s when you do it.

You reach for his phone.

Not sneaky. Not hesitant. Just bold as hell.

Sunghoon barely has time to process what’s happening before he feels the shift—your fingers wrapping around the device, unlocking it like you’ve done it a thousand times before.

His thrusts slow, his eyes flicking down to where you hold the phone, the screen lighting up against the dim room.

His gaze snaps back to yours.

“What are you doing?” he breathes, voice rough, his forehead nearly touching yours.

You smirk, lifting the phone just enough to angle the camera, your expression playful but knowing.

“Leaving you a present.”

The second the words leave your mouth, something in him snaps.

His grip on your hips tightens, his pace picking up instantly, his cock slamming into you with a sharp, deliberate force that knocks the air from your lungs.

“Oh, you wanna leave me a present, hm?” he taunts, voice dark, amused. His hand wraps around your throat, his thumb pressing just enough to make your pulse spike. “You want me to have something to watch while I’m gone?”

You nod, biting your lip, eyes fluttering at the way his dominance overtakes you completely.

He grabs the phone from your hands—angles it perfectly, just enough to capture your wrecked expression, the way your body bounces with every sharp thrust.

“Look at you,” he breathes, dragging his tongue along his bottom lip. “You want me to watch this when I’m gone? Want me to jerk off to the way I fuck you?”

Your fingers claw at his back, your mouth opening to respond, but the words come out broken—nothing but desperate moans spilling past your lips.

And he loves it.

His smirk widens, his thrusts turning brutal, each stroke hitting deeper, sharper—like he’s making sure you won’t forget this either.

“Mmm, yeah,” he groans, staring into the camera like the cocky bastard he is. “You’re not gonna last, baby. Look at you—already falling apart on me.”

His grip tightens on your jaw, tilting your face so you’re forced to look at the screen.

Forced to watch how good he’s fucking you.

Your breath stutters, body trembling, and the second he lowers the phone, capturing the way he disappears into you with every stroke, you feel yourself snap.

He grins, watching you fall apart, his own restraint slipping as he chases his high, his movements growing erratic, desperate, possessive.

And when he finally buries himself deep, spilling inside you with a shuddered groan, he tilts the camera back up—catching the way your lips part, the way your body still twitches from the aftershocks.

The way you’re still his.

Sunghoon smirks into the camera, lifting a brow as he murmurs—

“Yeah… this’ll do.”

Sunoo

It’s soft at first.

Sunoo moves slowly, rolling his hips into you with lazy, teasing strokes, his lips brushing against yours, his breath warm, sweet, intoxicating.

His fingertips trace nonsense shapes against your waist, his touch light, playful—like he’s taking his time, like he’s enjoying just being here, feeling you wrapped around him.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he hums, voice dripping with affection, amusement.

He’s smiling against your lips, his tone saccharine, but you can feel the heat behind it—the way his movements are just a little too calculated, the way he’s holding back.

You can tell he’s waiting.

Waiting for you to lose patience.

And of course, you do.

Your fingers curl around his phone, grabbing it from where it rests on the pillow beside you.

Not sneaky. Not shy.

Just bold.

Sunoo feels it immediately—the slight shift in balance, the way your grip tightens, the way the dim glow of the screen illuminates your face.

His rhythm falters.

For the first time tonight, his movements pause.

And when he finally pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes—

The look on his face?

Deadly.

His lips curl into a slow, wicked smirk, his expression shifting from sweet to something far more dangerous.

“What’s this?” he purrs, his tone still light, teasing, but you can hear the mischief lurking underneath.

You bite your lip, angling the camera just right, making sure it captures everything—the way he’s hovering over you, the way his hair is sticking to his forehead, the way his bare shoulders glow under the dim lighting.

“Leaving you a present,” you murmur, voice dripping with seduction.

His brows raise, his smirk widening.

“Oh?”

Then—

He snatches the phone from your grip.

And suddenly, you’re no longer the one in control.

He lights up, his playfulness turning deadly, consuming.

He flips the camera, making sure it’s on you.

Making sure you see what he sees.

“Oh, you like watching yourself get ruined?” he breathes, tilting his head, his fingers gripping your jaw as he angles the phone perfectly.

You barely have time to process the shift before his hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that has your eyes rolling back.

You gasp, your body jolting, but all you hear is him laughing.

Laughing.

Like he loves seeing you like this.

“Mm, baby, look at you,” he coos, pressing his lips to your cheek before pulling back just enough to let you see yourself on the screen.

The way your body shakes, the way your mouth hangs open, the way your fingers are digging into his back—it’s a sight.

And Sunoo?

He’s fucking living for it.

“This is cute,” he murmurs, smirking as he presses a soft, almost mocking kiss to your lips. “I’ll make sure to save it.”

His pace doesn’t falter once.

If anything, he deepens it, making sure you feel every inch of him, every stroke, making sure you know that even when he’s teasing you, he’s still in full control.

And when you finally fall apart, body shaking, back arching, his eyes gleam with pure satisfaction.

He presses one last kiss to your jaw before looking straight into the camera—

And winking.

Jungwon

Your legs are spread over his lap, body flush against his, his strong arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

Jungwon never rushes.

His pace is calculated, his movements fluid—each slow, deep thrust sending waves of pleasure through your body, making your head spin.

He’s watching you.

Observing every little reaction—the way your fingers twitch against his chest, the way your breath stutters when he shifts his hips just right, the way your thighs start to tremble, like you’re already on the verge of breaking.

And he loves it.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost teasing. “Haven’t even done anything yet.”

You let out a breathless laugh, your arms tightening around his shoulders.

“You think so?” you challenge, a playful lilt to your voice.

And then—without hesitation—you reach for his phone, snatching it from where it rests on the bed beside him.

His eyes darken immediately.

His movements stop.

The playful smirk on your lips falters slightly as you look up at him, finding his expression unreadable—his jaw tight, gaze sharp.

For a second, he doesn’t say anything.

He just watches.

Then—his lips curl into a slow, knowing smirk.

“You wanna test me, baby?”

Your breath catches.

Before you can respond, he moves.

With effortless strength, he shifts, his grip on your waist tightening as he flips you onto your back in one smooth motion.

You barely have time to react before he’s on you, his body caging you in, his knee pressing between your legs, keeping them wide open.

“Go ahead.”

His voice is low, commanding.

He nudges the phone toward you, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

“If you’re gonna record, do it right.”

Your lips part, a shiver running down your spine at the sudden shift in power.

Jungwon leans in, pressing his mouth to the corner of your jaw, his breath hot against your skin.

“Make sure you get all of it.”

You barely manage to hit record before he snaps his hips forward, the force of it making your back arch off the bed, a choked gasp escaping your lips.

He laughs, low and satisfied.

“What’s wrong?” he taunts, his hand gripping your throat lightly, tilting your head up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. “You started this, baby. You can take it, right?”

The camera is still rolling, capturing everything—the way your body jolts with every precise, unrelenting thrust, the way his expression remains so calm, collected, like he’s barely even trying.

And then—he looks straight into the camera.

“This is what you wanted, huh?”

His pace doesn’t falter, his grip on your throat keeping you in place as he watches you come undone beneath him.

And just when you think he’s going to let you go, just when you think you’ve reached your limit—

His fingers slide between your thighs, pressing against your swollen clit with dangerous precision.

Your body jerks, a broken sob slipping from your lips, your vision blurring.

Jungwon smirks.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your temple as your body trembles in his hold. “Now, let’s make sure you remember this, too.”

[tobeholyistobeempty]

‘you’ll get used to it.’ | captain john price

“Good girl,” he mutters, voice thick with it, and your cunt clenches around him in response. “God, you take me so—” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his, and he hisses. “Yeah,” his mouth finds your ear. “Show me what you can give me—”

WARNINGS - 18+ mdni. smut. so much smut. darker themes ie death. a super deep and twisted interpretation of a solider who’s being reckless in attempt to run from their feelings. captain price is bred to hunt so it’s futile. piv. mirror sex. multi orgasms. size kink. dirty talk. dubcon slightly. we shouldn’t be doing this trope. slightly morally grey. a lot of sleep token references. fingering. reader afab. mentions of blood, injury. slight brat/dom dynamic. overstimulation.

The first thing you register is the weight of him.

Not his hands, though they’re there too — firm around your arms, holding you steady — but him. The heat of him at your side, sweat and cigarettes filling your muddled senses with each laboured breath you gasp for. The quiet, infernal energy that pours off him, taking up too much space, too much air from your already airless lungs.

“You with me?” His voice rumbles close to your ear.

You try to nod, but the motion sends a fresh bolt of pain ricocheting through your skull. Your breath hitches, and his grip tightens.

“Easy.” A low murmur, meant to soothe. “Almost there.”

There being the med bay, where fluorescent lights paint everything sterile. Too bright, too fucking loud alongside the offset drumbeat in your ears. He doesn’t let you sit on your own — eases you down onto the cot himself, hands as steady as they always are, even when yours are the furthest from.

You wince as you shift, and his eyes flick over you. He’s still assessing.

“Shouldn’t’ve let that bastard get a hit in,” he mutters, half to himself.

You know what he’s thinking. The result of your own impulsivity. Reckless. “Yeah, I’ll try to avoid that next time.”

He exhales sharply. A shake of his head. “Could’ve been worse.”

You know that. Just like you know he’s only saying it to ease your dread. But you can see it in the way he looks at you, something unreadable tightening at the corners of his mouth, that he’s seen it. Many more times than you think.

“I’m fine,” you tell him. “You don’t have to—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Just gives you that look, the one that shuts people up without him having to say a damn thing. It’s something you’re still learning about him — the way he often communicates without words. How his silence and pointed stares hold more meaning than most people’s shouting. You’ve also learned the effort to argue with him when he’s like this is a futile one. You’re a part of his team. He’ll be with you through it all.

Then, without asking, he reaches for you — because he knows you’ll let him. One hand bracing your chin, tilting your head so he can get a better look at the damage.

And even through the agony, it’s all too much.

The touch, the closeness, the way he hasn’t taken his eyes off you for one goddamn second since you’d been hit. Your throat goes dry at the realization that it’s doing more to you than it should. But you’ll never get used to how he does it. How a man like him — a wartime killer with more bloodshed on his fingertips than skin covering his limbs — can still look at you with something even remotely soft, when he’s bred to be everything but.

“You always this stubborn?” His voice is quieter now. A rough rasp against his throat.

You swallow, pulse hammering. “You always this persistent?”

His lips quirk, but his grip stays firm, fingers cool against your fevered skin.

“You’ll get used to it.”

You wondered then, if you ever really would.

———————

Months later, you’re still wondering the same thing.

It’s been months since that night in the med bay. Months of keeping yourself at arm’s length. Of keeping things professional. Of projecting platonic renditions despite the cursed thing threatening to take its place.

Or, well, trying to.

Because if there’s one thing you know for certain, it’s that tension like this doesn’t fade. It festers.

No matter how deep you try to bury it, perseverance is its ally. Helps it crawl out of the grave you dug for it in every brush of his fingers against yours when he hands over a magazine clip, every order spoken gravel in your ear, every glance held a second too long when neither of you are fast enough to look away. It leaves claw marks in everything, has been ever since the day he carried you through crumbling stone and mortar — ever since you felt him so fucking close and you realized you didn’t mind it. Since the moment you learned more about him in twenty minutes than you have in the entire year by his side.

That night relinquished something. Made you see him in a new light. What was once a beacon is now a solar flare for dead gods.

And it erupts here. Now.

In the barracks washroom after a mission gone sideways. After a fight that took too much out of you — left your bones aching, your skull pounding with the remnants of a concussion you’re beginning to suspect never fully healed — skin still humming raw, soaked in adrenaline and something a little too fucking reckless.

After he follows you in.

The door slams behind him, the sound ricocheting off the tiles. You don’t turn around, just strip your tac vest off with more force than necessary, breathing hard, hissing under your breath as exhaustion begins smothering out the fire in your blood.

“You got a fucking death wish?”

You can feel him staring at you. You know he’s seeing red — the heat of his eyes on your back incomparable to the even the greediest hellfires.

You exhale, press your palms flat against the edge of the sink. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” He steps closer. “You ran straight into that firefight without cover.”

“I handled it.”

“You barely walked away.”

Finally, you turn, glare at him over your shoulder. “That what this is? Another fucking lecture?”

He doesn’t scowl. Doesn’t snap at you like your previous COs would. He just watches. And somehow, that’s worse.

“That what you think I’m doing?”

You scoff, shake your head, turning back toward the sink. The mirror in front of you is cracked down the middle, splitting your reflection in two. And you think, rather ridiculously, that it’s a perfect fucking picture of how you feel. Torn. Between the persistence of him and the need to keep your distance. Between what you’ve spent months trying to ignore and the way it still catches you off guard—how you keep finding yourself watching him, noticing him, like something inside you has already made a decision you can’t retract.

Behind you, he exhales slow. You hear the shift of his boots against the floor.

“Can’t keep doing this,” he mutters. “Won’t.”

Something in your chest tightens.

“What, watching my back?” You force your voice to stay even. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“Not like this.”

The simplicity of that response has currency, and you know the behaviour. The familiar silence that tells you there’s more to this. Syllables pleading behind his teeth which he isn’t quite yet dignifying — but that slice along the back of his throat all the same. You meet his gaze in the mirror, and you see it then. In the dim light of his ocean eyes.

An emergence.

“I can’t watch you go down again.” There it is. Words coaxed out in that thick accent of his that inflicts them like a wound. He’s moving closer now, extinguishing the space. Stepping up behind you. “You haven’t been right for months. I need to know why.”

At that, you almost recoil — each syllable thrusting the knife deeper into your resolve, and you realize it’s not his accent that makes them cut, but the way he speaks them. Certain. As if he’s looking at you bare. No layers left to protect you. Like you’re nothing but sinew and marrow. Like your eyes and limbs are instruments to pick apart.

You stare at the sink. “So you are always this persistent.”

It leaves your lips exactly as you mean it — a callback, a test. You don’t watch his face, but the silence stretching long tells you it landed exactly where you wanted. A synapse snap back, an echo from the depths of whatever is eating you from the inside out.

“And you,” a pause, breath ghosting against the shell of your ear. “Are always this stubborn.”

He says it like an indictment.

You’re sure it’s because he knows you. Because he sees how you bleed and pretend you don’t. How you’ve been keeping yourself at arm’s length for months. Because you’ve cornered yourself — because you let the bruises fade without ever acknowledging how deep they burrow.

Your fingers tighten around the porcelain, like if you hold on hard enough you can keep the charade going. Pretend you don’t feel what you feel. But then, you glance up, and there it is — your reflection wavering in the split mirror, cut through by the fault line of your own indecision. Your own internal warfare.

“Yes,” you whisper. “But you knew that long ago.”

“I did.” His hand braces against the sink beside yours as he all but cages you against it. “But I keep thinking, sooner or later, you’ll let yourself stop.”

Another pause. A breath suspended in air too thick, in a space that feels too small.

“You want me to stop?”

He exhales through his nose. “I want you to want to.”

It’s an invitation. A quiet demand.

You swallow against the burn in your throat because it’s clear he knows what’s hiding behind your eyes. He’s just asking you to be honest. To pull the words from where they’ve been buried, to stop dissolving them like acid on your tongue. To let him in.

“Then you want for nothing.” Your voice is softer than you mean it to be, dangerously close to breaking. “Because you know I’d tell you anything if you asked.”

His eyes meet yours in the mirror.

“Tell me what’s making you reckless.”

You’d expected that — or something like it — but it still takes you apart. Thread by thread, a rope cinched through the hollow of your ribs. Pulling, pulling —waiting for you to give.

And you almost do. Almost let it spill, let it take shape in the open air between you. The truth of it. The rot you’ve kept pressed beneath your tongue, the slow, patient decay of something you know you shouldn’t feel.

But instead—

“It’s the head injury,” you lie.

A hollow offering. Brittle. A crumbling thing in place of the real answer.

His fingers twitch against the porcelain, reflection sharpening in the mirror — cutting through the fractures he’s causing. He doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t accuse you of lying. And that’s worse. So much worse. Because it means he’s seeing you. Means he’s waiting — sifting through the hollow, the fractions of you that no longer fit together in search of the thing you hesitate to give him.

“You can’t lie to me.” It sinks deep. Sticks somewhere you can’t pull it free. He’s right. “We both know it isn’t just that.”

You exhale something like a laugh except it’s boneless and bitter, just nerves spilling out because they’ve got no where else to go.

“Didn’t know you were a medic now.” You break your eyes back to the sink. “Or a mind reader.”

“I don’t need to be.” The words come fast. Convicting. “I just need to know you.”

And that. That makes you look up at him again. Makes you meet his eyes. Makes you burn.

“Price—“

His lips are against your ear. “Tell me.”

Your throat closes. The rope pulls tighter. You know what he wants — what he’s asking. But the answer feels like it won’t fit in your mouth. The swell of truth too large. Too longly suppressed because god this is your Captain and all he did was save your life. You know you should just be grateful and yet the only thing on your mind is granting him more than the debt you owe.

Because when you can’t swallow your demons, they don’t just disappear. They turn to hunger instead.

It was his hands that had fed them. They’re still starving now.

“The truth will ruin everything, Captain.” The words tear from your throat like he’s ripped them out himself. “This isn’t something you, or anyone, can help me with.”

You feel him go still the moment the words leave you. Feel it in the hand bracing against the sink, the exhale of his breath against your neck.

“So that’s what this is.” Your stomach coils, something twisting tight as you turn your head to face him. He doesn’t move back. Just dips his gaze to your lips. “You’re feeling too much, yeah? Think by being reckless you can run from it.”

It’s startling, the way he sees right through you. Your silence is a telling confession and he reads it like scripture.

You’ve always known it would be hard with him. Knew it from the beginning, because he’s as sharp as he is skilled, because he knows how to look at a situation and read the words left unspoken.

You nod. All while wishing it was anyone else.

“You can’t outrun this.” His voice drops, dragging his free hand up the nape of your neck. “Can’t outrun me.”

He tugs you toward him, something dark flashing beneath his eyes — something like possession, something that makes your bones ache as his mouth ghosts over yours. A torturous, drawn-out motion, withholding what you know he’ll take.

A breath passes between you, your eyes closed, a million things unspoken. Spinning. Thrumming in the silence.

Then, he brushes his lips to yours. And there’s fire.

A slow-burning ruin, heat licking through your stomach, curling in your spine, and it devours you — every breath, every instinct screaming at you to pull away, to run. It’s all gone. Gone until the moment he pulls back. Presses his forehead against yours.

“I know.” You reply, and for a second you think he’s backing off.

He doesn’t.

Lips against yours again, he takes. Your mouth parts on a sharp inhale. Shock, surrender, his tongue slipping against yours, before he kisses you hard. Like he’s been waiting for this, waiting for your admittance. Like this is something he’s fought against just as much as you have.

Your hands find his shoulders, something to brace against as he pulls you in deeper. The breath is gone from your lungs, your pulse pounding for an entirely different reason now. You open your eyes as he pulls back again. Take in the sharp cut of his features — the shadow of a beard against his jaw, the darkness of his gaze, drinking you in like he wants to keep you there.

“You don’t get to die on me,” he murmurs, and it makes your world tilt. Makes you wonder if you hit your head harder than you thought, all those months ago. Makes you wonder if you’re hallucinating. “Christ.” His fingers flex at your waist. “You don’t get to be careless.”

There’s something in him you’ve never seen before. Something undone. Something you don’t understand but do at the same time — because you feel it too. The decades of loss. The battle scars. The countless near misses that linger for life. You weren’t thrusting yourself into open fire with some raging death wish — but you weren’t being as methodical as you should have been either, all to chase that fucking adrenaline spike. You didn’t think he’d have this reaction.

And there’s so much you need to say. So much you need to do. But all you can do is whisper, breathless against him. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause. A click of his tongue.

“I’m not done with you.” His mouth finds yours again, something softer this time, but no less demanding. You don’t fight it. And when his free hand dips down your back, you tilt your head up into him, hands fisted in his shirt, wishing you didn’t miss the feel of it so devastatingly when he pulls back again. “You want reckless? I’ll show you fucking reckless.”

You don’t have a chance to answer before he spins you around and shoves you against the counter. A groan slips from your lips, but you relish the feel of him — the warmth of his chest as he steps into you, crowding you until all you know is his heat.

His hands slide down your sides, gripping at your hips, the heat in your gut burning hot as he holds you in place.

“This what you want?” He mutters against the side of your throat, his nose nudging your jaw. “Or do you still want to run?”

You swallow, mouth parted, breath coming hard. It’s a question, but you know he doesn’t really want an answer. Not with everything he’s doing. Not with the way he’s holding you, the way his hands slip beneath your shirt, calloused fingers grazing bare skin as he tugs the fabric up.

Your breath hitches. “Christ, Captain—”

You feel his mouth brush against your neck, tongue lavving out to taste you. Like he’s hungry and you’re a goddamn four-course meal. You moan. It’s all you can do to stay upright, legs going weak when he nips at your jaw.

“No Captain.” A demand. His hand sliding lower, dipping under the fabric of your cargos. “John.”

John. You shudder at the implication of it. John is a rare thing—something you’ve only ever heard him give to a handful of others, and no one else. John is personal. John is when he’s no longer your superior, but instead, your equal.

“John.” Somehow, it rolls off your tongue like breathing, like it had always been waiting there for this moment. Another moan follows it, just as his fingers find your clit. “Ohgod, John—”

He hums, teasing you, fingers moving in paced, languid circles like he’s got nothing but time despite the way his chest is pacing against your back. Pressure building beneath his skin. You feel the tension in him — the way his muscles shift, the way he tenses in response.

“That’s it,” he grinds out, fingers speeding up just enough. “You like that?”

Your answer is an afterthought. You don’t speak, don’t need to. Your mouth finds his again, and he swallows the breath you try to take. All you can do is nod.

And you know you have no fucking right to know what he sounds like. How he tastes as your tongue wrestles his. Your head spinning too fast for you to think because he is everywhere, a heady mix of lust and need as you desperately try to chase the way he makes your blood race. It’s all so new. So fucking wanton. Needy. As if all the months of wanting have finally caught up to the moment, a wildfire that seems to burn all logic. You know this is wrong — but fuck you don’t care.

You know in a second, he’ll be pressing you against the granite and you’ll have to make a thousand apologies to whatever god may be listening.

But then he pushes a finger into you, and you only have one prayer on your tongue. “Oh, John.”

He exhales against you, a quiet growl that goes straight to your head. It’s the same sound he makes when he’s in a combat, and there’s something about the idea of being able to make him feel the same as he feels when he’s a man of war that makes fireworks light up behind your eyelids.

“Mm. She’s fucking tight.” He mutters as he curls his finger and presses deeper. You gasp, the sound swallowed between you. “This is what you needed, hm? Needed me to pin you down. Make you fucking feel.”

That— that’s exactly it. Your eyes dart up to his in the mirror because yes. In the fractures he’d caused he’d found what you were too afraid to verbalize. And it makes you keen — the way it’s like he can rip out your soul and hold it in his hands. You know you can’t hide it in your gaze, the desperation that comes with that kind of dependency.

Of course.

“You. Mm. You always know just what I need.” You moan out, as teasing as possible, while your climax barrels closer.

And he relishes it. Every second. It’s obvious in the sharp inhale he takes, the way his pupils dilate until the blue in his eyes look like a halo in a sea of blackened lust. Your head feels like it’s splitting in two, caught between the pressure building inside you and the heat that seems to be coiling so tight you could implode.

He adds a second finger, and you have to grip onto the counter if you want to still find your feet.

“Ohmygod—fuck, John—“

You don’t know how you look, can’t bring yourself to face your reflection — but you know how it feels, the way the world is tipping like you’re on the deck of a ship, the way your stomach clenches and your nerves light like fire under your skin. The irony of the situation isn’t lost on you. You spent months running from him just to end up here. You realize now that he’s always been a step ahead in a way you can’t understand, and you know you’re playing a game you won’t win.

“Let me feel it.” He purrs against your ear, fingers pumping. “Let it happen.”

You moan loud at that, clenching around his fingers because it already is happening. The pleasure is hot and blinding.

“Ohgod—“ your voice breaks between words, your head falling back against of his shoulder. “Fuck. I’m—“

He knows. The heat building in your gut so bright it seeps through your skin. So, he dips his other hand back beneath your shirt, palming your breast and you know it’s to make you fall even harder — and christ, he manages it. You erupt, climax hitting you like a train.

The bliss is blinding, and you want to scream — but can’t because his mouth is on yours, capturing every strangled gasp you give as you try to catch your breath. You’re trembling, legs shaking, your body trying to find some sort of ground as you gasp for breath — but then he’s pulling his hand out and sliding off to one side. You feel empty. Breathless. You think, in some dim place in your mind, that you should feel embarrassed now, but you’re too distracted to care. As your breathing returns, you can hear him sucking on his fingers.

Tasting you.

You can barely stand it, the noise curling through the fog in your head. You hear a soft pop, and suddenly his hand is on your jaw, tilting you towards the mirror, and you finally look.

You think you almost look the same. You can almost pretend that that this is what it’s always been — something fleeting and nameless and reckless — but there’s a flush on your cheeks, a gloss in your eyes, that you can’t deny. In fact, the only thing that breaks you out of the fantasy is the way John’s eyes meet yours.

As if there was ever any mistaking what you would allow to happen here. You know, looking at him, that that the hunger in your gaze would always give away the truth. That he would always know how to read you.

“Reckless.” He mutters, as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking, as if it’s something he’d known all along. You watch his jaw clench, his fingers digging into your cheeks. It’s not angry — it’s something more. A possession. “You do not get to leave me.”

You’ve known this man for barely a year, and yet he understands something you cannot. Something different from all your previous CO’s. Something that goes deeper than protection of a superior. And for the first time, you realize you can’t hide—not from him, not from whatever this is.

“Is that an order?” You whisper. Smirking.

He leans in, the heat of him branding against your spine, and you feel his words before he speaks them, rough and low on your throat.

“An order,” he echoes, hands sliding down to your hips. “And a threat.”

Your breath stutters, head spinning too fast to think. This is dangerous — whatever this is. It’s like the two of you are careening off the edge of a mountain, barreling toward something irreversible. You should stop this. You should pull away.

“Mm.” Instead, you arch your back, pressing against him with a low, breathy hum. “Now who’s being reckless.”

“Mhm. Knew you’d like that,” he mutters, mouth dragging against your jaw. His hands are already working, tugging down your zipper. “Brat.”

You should hate that word. Before him, you would have even more so. But something about the way he says it makes you bite your lip.

“You want to be put in your place.” His hands are purposed. Tugging down your cargos, undoing his belt. “That it?”

“Depends.” Your breath hitches. “Where exactly is my place, Captain?”

“Right here.” He presses you forward, palm splayed between your shoulder blades. His other hand grips your hip, dragging you against him, the thick weight of his need sliding along the slick between your thighs. You swallow a moan. “Right underneath me, Sergeant.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your head is spinning too fast to think. Then, he’s pushing inside you, and you lose the last of your breath.

“Fuck.” Your eyes catch in the mirror, watching as he sinks in, stretching you wide, splitting you open. The breath punches from your lungs, knuckles strained where you brace against the counter. Your head falls back, and he groans — a low, guttural sound that ripples through you. “Price—“

His fingers press into your jaw, turning your gaze back to the mirror. “Look at me.”

You do. And God. You wish you hadn’t.

Dark, blown-out pupils devour the blue of his irises. His chest heaves, the cords of his neck pulled tight. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anything more wrecked, more devastating, than the way he looks at you now.

“Good girl,” he mutters, voice thick with it, and your cunt clenches around him in response. His breath stutters. “God, you take me so—” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his, and he hisses. “Yeah,” his mouth finds your ear. “Show me what you can give me—”

You try. You really do. But fuck—

“Huge,” you gasp, tipping onto your toes for respite as he buries himself to the hilt. “Fuck—John—”

“Mhm. Don’t run—” his hand slides up your throat, fingers curling, just enough to make it dangerous. You gasp, pulse hammering against his palm. He knows. Of course he does. The way he knows everything about you. “You’ll get used to it.”

You’ll get used to it.

The words echo back at you. The same ones he murmured the first time you asked him if he’s always this persistent. If you could think, you’d laugh. But you can’t. Because now you know the answer. Yes, he is always this persistent. And no, you will never fucking get used to it.

Your moans have long since lost restraint, spilling from your lips in time with his thrusts, raw and wanton and so fucking desperate. He takes you like it’s not the first time, like he’s not far too big to be this deep — his grip bruising in the best way, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. You feel the fractures of yourself, a thousand pieces of you suspended midair, trembling on the verge of shattering. You’ve never been this close to the sun. And god, if it doesn’t feel like fire.

Then, he says your name.

Your name. Your real name.

And it’s like breaking the surface of water after nearly drowning—like oxygen flooding into starving lungs. It strips you raw, turns the world molten beneath you, sends you spiraling into release all over again, the pleasure so sharp it almost aches. His hand claps over your mouth, muffling your sob of a moan as your body locks up, trembling.

“Yeah. There we go. Let it all out f’me.” His voice is dark, rough with something that sends another sharp pulse between your legs. His hips slap against your ass, relentless. “I’ve fucking got you.”

And you know he does. In a way you don’t trust your breath or your bones. In a way that terrifies you just as much as it makes you need.

Your vision blurs, heat rippling through your limbs, but he—he is unmoving. Steady. Like steel. Like he can take you at your best and your worst. Like he could tame this thing between you, whatever reckless, nameless thing this is, and make it his.

“That’s right. You look at yourself,” he grunts, one hand digging into your hip, the other still clamped over your mouth. Your glassy eyes flick up to the mirror, catching his reflection behind you—pupils blackened, lips parted, gaze locked on you. “M’gonna dumb you out. Fuck you ’til you can’t walk, never mind run.”

Your nails scrape divots into the granite as he shoves you further over the counter, forcing you to take him deeper. A wrecked whimper slips through your teeth, body caught between overstimulation and desperate, eager want. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the slick drip down your thighs, soaking into your ruined cargos — you know he can feel it too.

“Shit.” He rasps, voice fraying. His hand leaves your mouth, slides down to your throat, not squeezing, just holding as his other moves. Fingers finding the mess between your legs, pressing slow circles over your swollen clit. “Tight little slut.”

Your body jerks. “Fuck—John—”

“That’s it. Gimme another,” he mutters, rolling his hips, hitting something deep inside you that makes your vision blur. “C’mon, sweetheart, I know you can.”

It’s too much. The thick, hot drag of his dick with every punishing thrust — the rough slide of his fingers. The weight of his body pressing you into the counter like he’ll never let you go. You can’t think. Can’t breathe—

And then he growls your name again, deep and needing, and it sends you over with a broken sob, body writhing, mind slipping into static as you cum again, clenched so tight around him it makes him stutter.

His hand fists in your hair, dragging your head back so his lips brush your ear. “Good girl. Fucking perfect—”

You feel it when he loses himself. Through the fog of pure bliss. When his grip turns almost punishing, when his hips stutter, when the ragged groan tears through his throat. He grinds deep, burying himself to the hilt, body rigid as he groans and spills inside you with a choked curse.

And then, there’s stillness.

Both of you breathing uneven — more so him, heavy against the nape of your neck. And for a long moment, it’s just that. Just the sound of your bodies slowing, just the lingering thrum of pleasure untwisting from both of your bloodstreams.

Then, his fingers tighten on your throat. Just enough. Just to make sure you feel it.

“You ever pull some reckless shit like that again,” he mutters, voice raw, scraping against your ear, “you won’t be able to fucking talk when I’m done with you.”

Your breath stutters, thighs twitching at the promise in his tone.

“You got a problem, you come to me. You don’t run. Don’t put yourself into the fire just to fucking feel something.” His hand slides up, grips your jaw, tilts your head just enough so you can see him in the mirror — blue eyes all pupil, sharp jaw clenched. “You’re mine,” he murmurs. “And I take care of what’s mine. No matter what.”

A slow, shuddering breath leaves you. He watches your lips part, watches the way your body reacts to his words. Then, his grip on your throat eases. A slow drag of his hands down your body, like he’s memorizing the feeling of you ruined under him.

“Understand me?” His voice is quieter now, but no less dangerous.

You swallow. Nod. “Yes sir.”

He hums. Seemingly satisfied, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your shoulder.

“Good.”

[apatheticsunday]

Henchmen for Hire

AKA "Danny is employed as one of the Rogue's henchmen and he's doing so well at being discrete, none of the Bats even know he's committing crime! (They absolutely know.)" prompt idea!!

Y'know what would make this funnier?? Is if Selina Kyle, Catwoman and hoarder of strays, immediately Work Mom'd this kid.

Imagine Danny gets dumped into Gotham by himself. Except there's, like, no ectoplasm - not nearly enough to sustain his Ghost. So, his Ghost form slowly peters out and he's left penniless and powerless on the streets of Gotham. Obviously, the next step would be to find money. But how?? He can't go invisible, intangible, or Full Ghost to help him out here. And there aren't a lot of stand-up places that hire kids younger than 13, so ultimately he's forced to apply for henchmen positions. He doesn't actually find Catwoman's ad. No, she hears through the grapevine that this actual child is applying to be a drug runner for the Penguin or - oh, shit, the Joker??

Absolutely not. Selina is no saint, but she's not going to let another kid be beaten to death by the Joker. Maybe she talks to Harley and finds out where the kid's going, or maybe she just puts in an ad and hires him on the spot. To be honest, she doesn't really expect to particularly like the kid - she'll have him pick up her coffee or something, pay him at the end of the day (standard henchmen pay periods since it's likely they won't live through the end of the week), and clear her conscience.

Except Danny is a little shit.

Danny, for his part, doesn't necessarily want to be a henchman but he figured it'd be more than getting some lady's coffee, right? He imagined an evil man twirling his extra long mustache and smoking a cigar, or mobsters hunched over a gambling table grunting about... playing cards or something, he doesn't know. Instead Danny's told to pick up Catwoman's dry-cleaning. It's almost an insult when he knows she's planning a heist that includes stealing several very expensive items from a museum during an evening showing. Without him, her only henchman!! (So what if he snooped in her office? It's not like it's ghost-proof; she should've expected Bad Behavior from the Very Bad Criminal in her house.)

Selina finds out very quickly that Danny is akin to a rambunctious kitten chewing through her phone charger cable and clawing at her favorite muslin blanket (the one Bruce gifted her from one of their dates). And she's so exasperated that she agrees he can be involved. But only as a distraction and he's told that he needs to scram once the police come because she's not bailing him out of juvie if he gets caught. (She wouldn't, but she could make Bruce do it. Her lover would take one look at Danny's watery doe eyes and cave like he's already experiencing Empty Nest Syndrome.)

So, Catwoman and her littlest henchman plan to rob the Gotham Museum. She buys him a cat-themed facemask (in case things get sticky and he needs a quick anonymous getaway) like ones from Party City, it has little ears poking out from the top and it's adorable. And then it's go time.

Danny's role is to distract the crowd by pretending to be a lost kid and distract Batman if he shows up. Selina will take care of the rest - disarming the alarms, timing the museum workers' shifts, bribing the West Entry security guard, frame-freezing the surveillance cameras, smuggling in the forgery and smuggling out the original, and - well. It'll be nice not to deal with the Big Bat if he shows up, but Selina is used to doing this on her own.

She should've expected that Danny doesn't do what's expected.

Because Danny does his part as the crying, screaming child whose mother is lost amongst the chaos once the museum's power shuts off. He distracts the guards easily. Selina hides away the art, replaces the forgery on the wall, and goes to find her little stray. And Danny is clinging hysterically to The Batman, refusing to be pried off by security guards and museum workers. He's straight up sobbing. Talking about how he loves Batman and Robin, his family is dead, he wants to be Robin, did you know you should be able to see Ursa Major from Gotham but you can't because of the smog, do you think Poison Ivy can just make a lot of trees to unpolluted the air, Nightwing is his favorite superhero, do you think he'll sign an autograph-.

It's astounding how fast that kid can speak while also smearing green snot onto Batman's cape. Danny proves himself to be even more unexpected when he goes off-script, eyeing her and screaming, "Mom!" And Batman's eyes catch hers. Shit. How can she explain a tiny child calling her mother in front of her lover? That'll be an awkward conversation.

Catwoman doesn't take Danny to outings after that. Instead, she has Harley and Ivy take turns "babysitting" (i.e., using Danny as Batfam distractions) while she's at work, kind of like having the fun aunts take you shopping. Danny can do whatever he wants!! With the exception that he needs to be wearing his cat-mask at all times, to properly conceal his identity (neither woman knows he'd already thrown himself at Batman without his mask).

So, while Ivy is destroying a toxic power plant, Danny is stealing Nightwing's escrima sticks, clinging to him, "accidentally" tripping him, doing the Koala-leg thing. He goes all out when Nightwing actually does trip on him - he shrieks that he broke his arm, which forces the vigilante to pay attention to him. Sobs, clings harder, and endures the trip to the hospital on the back of Nightwing's motorcycle with a shit-eating grin.

Harley is beating the hell out of some of Joker's gang. Red Robin is doing surveillance and coordinating with GCPD so they can get the whole circus to Arkham. Except Danny is calling out where Red Robin is hiding with the glittery pink microphone that Harley bought him (originally to sing Doja Cat and Chappell Roan in her car). Joker gang's priority will always be the Batfam because of Joker's obsession with Batman and Danny uses the distraction so Harley can get a couple good swings of her bat in. He cackles maniacally when he hears a muffled, "C'mon, kid!!" from Red Robin.

And the Batkids are just like, Jesus, this kid is literally a nightmare. But they can't do anything! Are they going do arrest a kid? No. Are they going to arrest Batman's lover? No! So, they're stuck dealing with this.... absolute gremlin of a child!!

Danny, of course, is very pleased. The Bats have no idea who he is because of his little cat-mask, he's getting paid literally several grand per week, and Selina - who he's been living with ever since she realized he was homeless - even got him goldfish!

(Bruce is in his office, eyes crinkling in that iconic Dad-Smile, scrolling through candid photos Selina snuck of Danny's chocolate-smeared face while the kid was passed out on her couch. There's a fake ID under the name of Danny Fenton and several pages of foraged school records in a pile on his desk. Bruce eyes his desk drawer where several emergency adoption papers are tucked away.)

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓈 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

Ah, kinks—something all humans have, especially those who read fanfics. I mean, who doesn’t love them? Whether it’s the soft, the spicy, or the downright unhinged, there’s always something that hits just right.

Let’s be real: scrolling through AO3, Tumblr, or Wattpad at 3 AM, looking for that one specific trope that scratches the brain itch?

Yeah, we’ve all been there.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

I mixed a bit of canon and my headcanons for Crowe and Sol in this one—yep, once again! This time, I kept it focused on just four kinks to keep it short and sweet.

Hope you enjoy reading!

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

Starting, I’ve noticed that TKATB fans have their unique preferences when it comes to Sol or Crowe.

For example, fans who gravitate toward Sol tend to enjoy the idea of him being dominant—whether it’s being in control of him or just envisioning him taking charge. It’s that mix of power and intensity that gets people excited. You know who you are, you freaks!

On the other hand, fans of Crowe are drawn to his reliability, his deep understanding, and his caring nature. He’s willing to guide you through anything, offering both emotional support and strength. It’s comforting, isn’t it? And yes, I’m a freak too—I get it.

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

Naturally, I had to start with the man himself—Jericho, or Crowe, as he's known. Though the details are still unclear, he exudes a mysterious, almost savior-like presence. I WANNA KNOW SO BAD.

His style is effortlessly sharp, and his quiet confidence makes him instantly trustworthy. Reliable, steady, and composed, Crowe is the perfect support when life feels overwhelming. His charm is subtle, blending good looks with an alluring personality—irresistible, without ever being flashy. 

Now, let’s address the question: Can you see Crowe as kinky?

At first glance, no. Not. To a stranger, he’s too put together, with not even the faintest hint of anything unconventional beneath the surface. But as you get to know him, that answer begins to shift. Slowly, subtly, he reveals a side of himself that hints at complexity—an edge just beneath his polished exterior. However, don’t expect anything extreme or overtly wild.

What he does reveal is never too much but always just enough to leave you captivated—and maybe, just maybe, a little curious.

✑ Vanilla (Soft Dom…) 

For Crowe preferences!!

He's the ultimate soft, warm partner. Like, you just know he's all about the quiet, comforting vibes. No crazy power dynamics or rough kinks—he's all about that steady, affectionate love. It's Vanilla, but in the best way possible, full of layers. He’s not rushing anything, just enjoying the little things, taking his time, and making sure you feel heard and cherished. 

When you're with him, it's all slow and gentle—he’s not here for intense extremes. His love is patient, thoughtful, and wrapped in warmth. Every touch, every word, is like a soft caress, just so deliberate and tender. 

And honestly? There's no need for anything crazy. Crowe's happy to explore your connection, build that trust, and just savor the passion that grows naturally between you two. It's the kind of love that builds and lingers long after. 

Now… Crowe might be a soft dom—nah he IS A SOFT DOM.

Crowe’s not the type to push you past your limits just for the thrill of it. He’s not into playing mind games or testing how far he can take things. No, Crowe’s power is the quiet kind, the kind that makes you feel safe without even having to try. He knows the real strength is in taking care of someone, not in forcing them into anything they’re not ready for.  

When you’re with him, it’s like he’s always tuned into you, always listening, always aware of exactly what you need. He’s the guy who doesn’t take, but gives—gives you everything he can, with a level of care that’s almost overwhelming. And even though he’s gentle, don’t get it twisted—he’s still a tease. He’s the kind of man who’ll leave marks on your skin, a subtle reminder that you're his. But it's all in the way he leads, in that steady hand that takes yours, guiding you through every little moment.  

There’s nothing loud about Crowe—other than his moans and whining. I SWEAR he has pretty moans.

He doesn’t demand anything and doesn’t rush you, but he has this way of making you feel like you’re the only person in the room. When he touches you, it’s with a confidence that leaves you breathless but also comforted. He’ll press his forehead against yours, his hand guiding yours down to your stomach, just so you can feel his bulge inside you,how much he wants you, how much he’s thinking about you at that moment. 

There’s no need for words—just that connection, that intense eye contact that says everything.  

But yeah, he’ll also let you think you have the upper hand for a minute. Let you believe you’ve got him cornered, like you're finally taking control… only for him to flip the switch, regaining control without you even realizing.  

With Crowe, it’s not about begging or pleading for pleasure—it’s about your happiness, your satisfaction. His version of dominance is the kind that wraps around you like a warm blanket, soft and cozy. He just wants to see you smile, hear you laugh—moan, and whine under him, and know that every moment spent with him is full of happiness.  

So, if you're into a soft dom who values deep emotional connection, tenderness, and affection, Crowe’s your man! He just wants you to trust him, to let go and let him care for you. Let him be there for you in every single way, in every moment. 

And in that, he gives you all the security you’ll ever need.

✑ Praise (giving + receiving)

Crowe is all about Praise, and affection through words. Imagine him pulling you close, whispering in your ear while his fingers gently trace patterns along your skin. 

“You’re such a good girl for me, look at how well you take me, love. That’s my girl, always so ready for me, aren’t you?” His words make you feel safe, wanted, and cherished.

He doesn’t wait for you to ask for reassurance—he gives it freely, letting you know how much he appreciates having you around, and how much he loves seeing you smile. And when it comes to your body? He knows every inch of it like he’s got a personal map of your every curve and spot. He might even joke, “No one will ever know you like I do. I’ve ruined you for everyone else, haven’t I?”

Crowe has this vibe about him, like he’s always hungry to make sure you're feeling amazing, but don’t forget to show him some love, too. He thrives on hearing you praise him, especially when you whisper how much you need him, and how much he’s doing for you. The sound of your voice, the words you say—they get to him, melt him down until his heart's pounding.

Now and then, he’ll pull back, checking in on you, “You okay? Am I pushing you too far?” It’s not just about the rush for him. He wants you to be comfortable, to be in sync with him as he takes you through everything, slow and steady, giving you all that love. “That’s it, you're doing so well,” he’ll say, his voice smooth like syrup, making sure you know you're adored.

But here’s the thing: if you keep praising him, or if you’re the one in control, just wait. Crowe’s mouth? It’ll get filthy. AND I MEAN FILTHY. He can’t help it, don't be mean now...

I mean, you can. You giving him head? Taking his cock deep inside your throat, feeling he's about to cum, then you pulled back, teasing him. He'll say, "Please, my love, you were doing so good on my cock—please, please, keep going, I need that tongue of yours."

One of his favorite things is when you’re so into it that he can just forget what you say and speak directly to you, but in a way that’ll make your body react before your mind even catches up. Like, he’ll whisper, “God, you taste so damn good. Missed me, huh? Just wanna be filled up, don't you?”

His words drip against you, his eyes dark with heat, like he's speaking to your body, not even acknowledging your moans. “Such a good fucking pussy. Always making me feel so damn good. Want me to stuff you full, hm?”

And when it’s all done? Crowe doesn’t just drop it and move on. He’s got aftercare down to an art. He’ll guide you through it, keep you close, making sure you’re okay, settled, and cared for, getting ready to do it all again whenever you’re ready!

✑ Experimentalist

Crowe is the kind of man who never wants to leave any stone unturned, especially when it comes to experiences.

There was something about him that screamed experimentalist—like he needed to try everything, no matter how wild or unconventional. When it came to relationships, he was always up for anything, which meant he'd probably had more relationship experiences than most people you knew. 

His mind is open, impossibly so, and he had an insatiable curiosity that could never be satisfied. He’d never form an opinion on something without diving in and getting his first-hand taste. If there was something new to try, something out-of-the-box—Crowe was there, ready to explore. 

And honestly? He didn’t even need you to ask twice. If you suggested something wild, he’d be all in—his enthusiasm infectious, his curiosity never-ending.

However, he's pretty vanilla when it comes to experimenting, so don't expect him to go TOO hardcore. If there's a kink suited to his taste and he masters it? Oh, Babe, you'll feel it—so much in fact.

Take ropes, for example. Blindfolds? Handcuffs? Oh, he is intrigued. But, again, don’t expect anything brutal. He isn't the type to be into floggers or paddles; no, pain isn't needed for his skills. It is his anticipation. The slow burn of him carefully tying you up, not in a rush, but with the kind of patience that made every moment last longer. 

When his hands hovered over your skin, it wasn’t just touch—it was electric. He’d make sure to linger, let his fingers graze over every inch, just enough to make you shiver, your breath hitching in the air between you. It wasn’t about hurting you, not at all. No, it was all about the build-up—the moment when the ropes or restraints were placed just so, tightening the tension between you both until it was practically unbearable. 

And then? When you finally let go, it was a release so sweet and steady that it left you breathless. No rushing, no quick fixes—just a slow, fulfilling pleasure.

Adding on, Crowe loved the idea of restraint. Whether for fun, for art, or for that extra little spark of excitement, there was something about having you completely at his mercy. 

And if you ever flipped the script? If he was the one getting tied up? Like I said, Crowe will be just as filthy when he lets his guard down. 

✑ Dacryphillia

Okay, hear me out. I know what you’re thinking—"Crowe? He would never hurt me. Why would he want to see me cry?" And I get it, really. This is one of those wild ideas but just stick with me for a second.

You know how he’s all about emotions and deep connections, right? Get it?

He gets this deep fascination with what you feel and show, especially when it’s raw. Here’s where it gets interesting: Dacryphilia. Yeah, I’m talking about that thing where someone gets... well, aroused by tears, by the sound of you sobbing, the whole mess of emotions. 

So, let’s imagine this: You’re begging him, pleading for more. Your face is a mess of emotions, eyes watery, tears rolling down your cheeks. And yeah, he’s gonna ask if you’re okay because that’s the kind of man he is—always checking, always making sure. But if you keep begging for more? Oh, that’s when it gets dangerous. 

Each desperate plea of yours, each tremor in your voice, just fuels this fire inside him, an all-consuming fire. His eyes? They’re practically glowing, deep blue, and locked on you like he's drowning in you, in every little thing you’re feeling.

You can feel him there, so close you can almost taste his breath on your skin. His lips brush against your ear, a soft, teasing whisper sending shivers down your spine. "So desperate for me already, huh? We haven’t even gotten to the fun part yet..." His voice is low, and dangerous, like he’s savoring every second of this.

You know he’s enjoying this. Every inch of him is hooked, and once he has you like this, there’s no going back.

Crowe’s could be teasing you for what feels like hours, driving you wild with a mix of pleasure and frustration. He’s pulled every bit of sensation from you, your body trembling with each orgasm, each touch—until you’re left aching for more. You’ve come undone on his fingers, his tongue, but now, you’re desperate in a way that makes your chest ache.

You need him, inside of you, filling you up, but he’s holding back. Just barely, he brushes against you with his cock, grinning at the whine that slips from your lips.

His fingers tease your entrance, and you can’t stop yourself from begging, voice shaky, "Please... Please, please." You repeated. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision as they fall helplessly. The emptiness without him feels unbearable.

Crowe tilted his head, the smirk on his face practically dripping with playful mockery. “Just please?” He dragged the word out slowly, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Tell me what you want, love. What is it you’re begging for?” His hand slid up your stomach, hand pushing down lightly as if testing the waters. 

A soft moan released from your lips as he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, the playful glint in his eyes shifting into something darker, more calculating. “You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”

His soft gin stretched wider as you stumbled over your words, desperate and disordered, pleading for more. He could tell you were unraveling, and it only pushed him further, each whimper was like a small victory. 

“You’re falling apart, love,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you what you need... just say the word.” You could barely focus as the desperation built into your chest. His control over you was unnerving, yet exhilarating. The tears running down your cheeks were a mix of frustration and need, a silent scream for him. 

“I need you, Crowe. Please...” Your voice was broken, but he was the one who was in control, studying the way you reacted like a willing experiment.

Crowe’s hand lifts gently to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears streaming down your face. He gives you a soft grin, his voice low and teasing. “Already crying for me, huh?” he murmurs, almost amused. His thumb slips past your lips, letting you taste the salty remnants of your emotions. "We’ve just started," he adds, a soft chuckle escaping him. 

Before you can respond, his hips jerk forward, pushing into you with one swift, forceful motion. The shock of it makes your breath catch, and Crowe can’t help but smirk, his eyes glinting with that dangerous, experimental gleam.

Every move, calculated and deliberate, is part of his twisted exploration. And you? You’re the willing subject.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Sol is described as a “stinky basement-dwelling yandere”—ngl, this alone made me laugh. He’s a quiet kid, the one who lingered at the edges of every room, observing, never quite fitting in.

Beneath his reserved exterior was a complexity most couldn’t fathom. He’s incredibly smart, with a sharpness that slipped through his words when he spoke, though he rarely bothered to. His talents leaned toward the arts, paintings, and writings.

And yet, at the end of the day, Sol isn’t exactly smooth. He was hopelessly inexperienced when it came to relationships. He gets no bitches, and honestly, he probably doesn’t even try. But in his inexperience is a certain rawness, and once you did get to know him, he’ll flirt or charm you. But before, he just watched and wanted.  

Now, let’s address the question: Can you see Sol as kinky?

Yes, let’s not sugarcoat it—he is kinky asf. Of course, he is. There was no way someone as quiet and repressed as Sol didn’t have a horny side, one he tried to keep buried but couldn’t fully hide due to his love for you. 

✑ Switch (A Pervert…)

Now, about Sol’s... preferences. 

From reading his relationship information card and playing the game. He is a paradox, a Switch in every sense of the word. He didn’t neatly fit into the mold of “always dominant” or “forever submissive.” Oh no, that would be far too mundane for someone like him. He's not a standard yandere people.

Sol is a man of extremes, a “pervert” in the most endearing, shameless sense of the word. He believed in living freely, without the shackles of societal expectations or traditional constraints. Ethics, morality, conventional roles—he’d toss them aside without hesitation if they stood in the way of his desires.   

When he takes the reins as Dominant, Sol is the type to lean into theatrics, pushing boundaries with a devilish grin and that mischievous gleam in his eyes. He had a talent for making the experience unforgettable, for making you feel as though the entire world had melted away, leaving only the two of you. But when the tables turned, when Sol found himself in the more submissive role, he’d throw himself into it with equal fervor. 

He’d challenge you to prove your worth, tease and push until you stepped up to the plate, and then—when you finally did—he’d surrender so completely that it'll feel like a victory worth savoring.  

To Sol, sex and relationships weren’t just about power dynamics or tradition. They were a playground for exploration, a place where the only rule was to follow what felt right. With his “anything goes” mentality, Sol turned every interaction into a kaleidoscope of passion and unpredictability. 

As mentioned, Sol, can’t help himself when it comes to you.

Let’s say he has this thing—Voyeuristic Disorder, to be precise, a fancy word for being a pervert. Dosn't care to see anyone else naked. Only you he wishes to see. He was obsessed with watching you, whether you knew it or not. In public or private, it didn’t matter.

He just liked being there, lurking in the shadows, soaking in every moment. Watching you do the most intimate things, completely unaware that he was there. 

There was something so exhilarating about seeing you—your bare skin, the way you moved, the little things you did when you thought no one was watching. He couldn’t resist. The way your body reacted, the sounds you made when you didn’t know he was there—it was all he needed. 

Deadass, I’m shocked that the creator of the game never added a specific scene where you were taking care of yourself in bed—you freak, oblivious to him sneaking a peek from the window, his hand on his cock, jacking himself off, doing exactly what he does best. Watching. 

He didn’t let societal norms dictate how he expressed himself or who he loved. He was unapologetically himself—messy, chaotic, and a little too intense for most people’s taste. But for those brave enough to step into his world, you, well, if you picked him, that is.

Sol will offer an experience unlike any other: one filled with unrelenting honesty, unbridled passion, and a love that refuses to be anything less than extraordinary.  

✑ Praise (Receiving)

Sol isn't the type of man you’d peg as desperate for validation—at least, not at first glance. His sharp, confident exterior gave the impression of someone who had the world at his feet, who didn’t flinch under pressure or crack beneath judgmental stares. 

But peel back the layers of this supposed nonchalant and cool type of man, and you’d find a truth that was much more human, much more raw. Sol craved praise. Why? Perhaps it was the lack of it throughout his life. His track record for romance was, let’s say, less than impressive. Not because he lacked charm or good looks—he had both in spades—but because his overbearing aura and unapologetic eccentricities tended to drive most people away. 

They didn’t understand him, couldn’t see past the way he challenged conventions. He wore his "loser" title like armor. After all, who cared if he didn’t have admirers lined up at his door? He didn’t need anyone... right? Yet, when someone, such as you, did manage to offer him an honest compliment, something sincere, it was like watching a dam break. 

His confident smirk would falter for a second, his eyes softening, betraying the vulnerability he worked so hard to conceal. Sol wasn’t accustomed to receiving love—real, genuine love—and when it came, it hit him like a truck

✑ Masochist

The first time you noticed Sol’s tendency to endure pain, you’d thought it was just his stubborn nature. He’s always been the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve when it came to you—raw, unfiltered, and unapologetically vulnerable. But as time went on, you began to see something deeper beneath that tough, rebellious exterior. 

Sol wasn’t just someone who endured pain; he seemed to embrace it…? almost thrive on it, especially when it comes to you.

Sol is, without a doubt, a masochist. Not in the twisted, sadistic sense, but in an almost heartbreaking way. He’d do anything to please you, to earn your attention—even if it meant enduring the unendurable. 

He could never be a sadist. No, he loved you too much to ever inflict pain on you, physically or emotionally. The very thought of hurting you would make his stomach churn. Instead, he channeled all his devotion into being by your side, no matter the cost.

There were moments when his tendencies became painfully obvious. Like he gets into fights back to back, defending himself or you—for example, the movie theater bathroom or the Campus library (With or without.)

You hadn’t/have even been there to witness it—Sol hadn’t wanted you to see him like that, bruised and bloody. But when you found out later, he brushed it off with that crooked grin of his, the one that hid just how far he’d go for you. “It’s nothing,” he’d said, wiping the blood from his lip. “They deserved it for talking about you like that.”

Or that time with Crowe. It had been an innocent moment, just you laughing at something Crowe said, but to Sol, it might as well have been a dagger to his chest. He clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white, nails digging into his palms until they drew blood. He didn’t want to feel that way—jealousy mixed with self-loathing—but he couldn’t help it. Watching you walk away with someone else, even for a moment, was unbearable. 

It wasn’t that he enjoyed the pain; it was just that he could handle it, even when it tore him apart inside.  

And in the quiet, intimate moments, Sol’s masochistic streak became something else entirely. If you picked him willingly, He’ll trust you, and loved you, enough to let down every last defense he had. He didn’t just endure pain; with you, he could find meaning in it. 

A sharp bite, nails dragging down his back—he shivered under your touch, his body responding in ways he didn’t fully understand but didn’t question. For him, it wasn’t just about the sensation; it was about the connection, the way it brought him closer to you.  

Masochism, for Sol, wasn’t about pain tolerance. It wasn’t about how much he could take. It was about the way he found a strange, twisted kind of comfort in it. The pain wasn’t the point; it was the context, the giver—you. Sol would never seek out pain for its own sake, but if it was for you, if it meant being close to you, he’d endure anything.  

Even in the game, he seemed to attract hardship like a magnet, always the one taking the hits—physically and emotionally. Whether it was the bullies who thought he was an easy target or the way he seemed to hurt himself just to prove his devotion to you, Sol carried it all with a quiet, unshakable resolve. Because, at the end of the day, it wasn’t about the pain. It was about you.  

And he’d never stop. For Sol, loving you wasn’t just a choice—it was a part of who he was. If being close to you meant enduring the worst the world could throw at him, he’d take it all with a smile. Because that’s who Sol is. A damn masochist.  

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.  

✑ Somnophillia 

It was inevitable, wasn’t it? Everyone could see this coming from a mile away—there was simply no other possibility. Sol, in all his twisted complexity, had long blurred the line between obsession and affection, his love taking on forms most would never dare to comprehend. 

Some might accuse him of holding darker urges, like necrophilia, drawn to the lifelessness of the dead. But no, that isn’t Sol. Despite his obsessions, there was a deep-rooted sentimentality within him—a refusal to let go, to lose. If anything, he had made it clear in his own hauntingly poetic way: he’d rather die with you than live without you. 

Yet, that didn’t mean his desires were any less unnerving. No, Sol’s particular brand of affection manifested in somnophilia, a fascination with the vulnerability of sleep, the beauty of your unconscious form. To him, those moments were sacred—your body relaxed, your mind adrift in dreams. It was when he felt closest to you, unguarded and free from the chaos of the waking world.  

Before your relationship, it started innocuously enough—or so it seemed. He’d find ways to end up at your apartment, invited by some pretense or perhaps even through sheer charisma. And then, ever so subtly, he’d lace your drink with something to make you drowsy, to keep you from suspecting as his fingers ghosted on you. 

You lay there, utterly still, utterly serene, your chest rising and falling with the kind of peaceful rhythm that seemed to still the chaos of the world around you.  

It was maddening, the way you looked so untouched by the noise that haunted him, your lips slightly parted, the barest whisper of breath escaping them. Every exhale was a siren call, soft and unassuming, but it gripped him like a vice.  

His gaze wandered, helplessly drawn down the curve of your cheek to your lips. They looked soft, and inviting in a way that felt almost cruel. He wanted to press his own to them, to taste whatever peace you’d found and see if he could borrow just a fraction of it for himself.  

But it wasn’t just your lips. His eyes traced lower, following the lines of your body, the way your clothes clung to you, hinting at the form beneath. He shouldn’t be thinking like this—he knew he shouldn’t. And yet the thought of you, warm and pliant beneath him, invaded his mind, unrelenting.  

He swallowed hard, trying to shake it off, but the more he fought, the more vivid the thoughts became. The sound of your soft sighs, the way you’d move under his touch, how you’d look at him—not like this, not sleepily and unaware, but awake, wanting.  

God, he was losing it.  

Sol leaned back, running a hand through his hair, forcing his gaze away from you for a moment. But it didn’t matter—your image was burned into his mind, and there was no escape. Watching you sleep was his guilty pleasure, though his guilt barely lasted long enough to stop him from pressing further. 

Once the two of you were together, the dynamics shifted, but only slightly.

Sol’s obsession deepened, and the lines of consent became more of a gray haze in his mind. To him, love was devotion—complete and all-encompassing. And if you loved him, shouldn’t you accept him entirely? Shouldn’t you trust him to care for you, even when you weren’t awake to see it? 

He was careful, always so careful with you, so don’t worry! 

His lips found their way to the sensitive curve of your inner thigh, his movements slow and deliberate as if savoring every second of this quiet moment. You stirred faintly, a sleepy whimper escaping your lips as the warmth of his mouth brushed against you, teasing and tender.

Sol’s hands gripped your hips gently but firmly; his fingers splayed across your skin to hold you in place. You tried to shift, your body instinctively responding to the soft, wet pressure of his tongue on your needy cunt, but his strength was unyielding.

“Shh,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly whisper in the stillness. One hand slid up to brush a stray lock of hair from your face, his thumb lingering for a moment as he marveled at the serene expression you wore, so unaware of the devotion he poured into every touch. “You’re even more beautiful like this,” he breathed, his words an intimate confession meant only for the dark.

To Sol, this meant everything. 

This was the essence of love itself—intimacy beyond words, a bond that transcended anything others could hope to understand. He wasn't like anyone else; he knew that, and perhaps that’s what made this feel so special.

So sacred.

There was a quiet possessiveness in the way he worshiped you, a deep yearning to etch himself into every corner of your being, to ensure no one else could ever touch the part of you that belonged to him.

And as you stirred again, a soft moan escaping your lips, Sol smirked against your skin, the faintest edge of smug satisfaction curling at the corner of his mouth. You might not fully wake, but you’d feel him—his touch, his adoration, eventually his cock. You’d know, even in sleep, that you were his world.

To be with him, you’d have to accept all of him. Even the shadowed obsession that came with it. 

[chanelrolls]

Love & Deepspace Men reacting to you giving them head while they drive

warnings. mdni, nsfw, explicit content, sexual themes, blowjob, dick-sucking

pairings. sylus, zayne, rafayel, xavier, caleb (separate) x reader

notes. it's my first time to write a full-blown nsfw piece so please excuse me if it doesn't come as good. anyway, requests are very much open.

SYLUS

Sylus is focused, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the gear shift—relaxed, poised, in control. Or at least, he was.

You lean in, lips ghosting over his thigh, barely a whisper of contact. At first, there’s no reaction—no sharp inhale, nor a startled twitch. Just the steady, unwavering presence of him, ever composed.

You press another kiss, this time firmer, lingering just a little longer against the fabric of his pants. His grip tightens. "You’re playing a dangerous game, kitten."

His lips curl into a slow, knowing smirk. His leg shifts slightly, as if to subtly press closer to your lips, but before you can take the invitation, his fingers suddenly catch your chin, tilting your face toward him.

He doesn’t look away from the road, but his grip is firm, thumb brushing against your lower lip with deliberate slowness. "If you’re going to test my patience," he murmurs, voice impossibly low, "at least be prepared for what happens when you lose."

"By all means, don't let me stop you," Sylus would purr, a wicked glint in his eyes as he watched you work on his shackles. "In fact, I insist you continue. Show me what that pretty mouth of yours can really do." He'd chuckle darkly, the sound rumbling through his chest.

Sylus would make no move to stop you, instead watching with a critical eye as if evaluating your performance. His breathing would remain steady, his heart rate barely increasing, a testament to his ironclad self-control. He was Sylus, after all. Nothing could ruffle his feathers, least of all a little roadside dalliance.

"Faster," he'd command, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Put your back into it, sweetheart. I know you can do better than that." His fingers would tighten in your hair, guiding your movements, pushing you to take him even deeper. "That's it, just like that."

He'd grip the steering wheel harder, his knuckles turning white as he fought the urge to surge forward, to take over, to claim his pleasure for himself.

And when he can't hold himself back anymore, he forces the tip to rub against your throat, and you wince in response, but he doesn't bugde, no, he keeps you there. "Keep going," He'd say, teasingly rubbing his tip against your throat, not caring about the way that you're already tearing up. "Don't you dare stop now. I want to see you finish what you started."

And then, suddenly—the car swerves. You barely register the motion before he pulls onto a quiet side road, the tires crunching against gravel as he slows to a stop.

Then, finally, he turns to you fully—one hand still on the wheel, the other trailing down your jaw, tracing the line of your throat before gripping the base of your neck. His touch is light, teasing, but there’s an unmistakable warning behind it.

"Congratulations," he murmurs, tilting your face up, "You got my attention."

ZAYNE

Zayne drives with precise, almost mechanical ease. One hand rests on the wheel, the other draped over the console between you.

Your fingers skim along his thigh first, light and teasing, tracing patterns against the fine material of his slacks. He doesn’t react. Instead, he exhales steadily, like someone who anticipated your next move before you even thought to make it.

Lips grazing over the fabric, the warmth of your breath seeping through, so close yet still not quite enough. Then, his fingers flex. "Do you think this is wise?"

A few beats pass in silence, and you almost think he’s going to ignore it completely, let it roll off his shoulders like he does with most things. But then, suddenly, his hand moves.

Not in warning. Not in restraint.

But to press you down. Fingers threading into your hair, keeping you close, firmly and deliberately, like he’s giving you a choice but already knows what you’ll pick.

"You're trying very hard to test me tonight," he murmurs, and now his voice is lower, rougher, something just a touch undone.

And when you finally took him into your mouth, he'd let out a low, sharp inhale through his teeth, his jaw clenching as he fought to maintain control. He'd say your name, voice strained, "we're in the middle of a..." He'd trail off, his words lost in a soft groan as you took him deeper.

Despite his initial surprise, Zayne would make no move to stop you, instead trying to focus on the road ahead. He was a pragmatic man, after all, and he knew the dangers of distracted driving. But damn if your sloppy mouth wasn't making it hard to concentrate.

"Careful," he'd warn, his voice a low rumble. "I don't want to cause an accident." But his words were undercut by the way he rolled his hips slightly, pushing himself deeper into your mouth.

Suddenly, he lets his grip loosen, fingers tracing the nape of your neck before slipping away entirely.

And then—just as quickly—he accelerates. The car surges forward, the sudden force pressing you back against your seat, "That's enough," the air shifting around you as he drives faster, sharper, more reckless than before.

He exhales slowly, smoothing a hand over his tie, regaining that signature poise—but when he finally speaks again, his voice carries that same unshakable authority as always. "Seatbelt on," A small pause, then, "You’ll need it."

RAFAYEL

He’s humming some tune under his breath, something slow. Then, your hand moves first, fingers gliding over the firm muscle of his thigh, innocently enough that he doesn’t react right away. But when your lips followed after, pressing into the fabric of his slacks, his hum falters.

Then stops entirely. For a moment, all you hear is the steady hum of the engine. The way his grip subtly tightens on the wheel. Then—

"You’re a real menace, y’know that?"

His voice is airy, light—like he’s amused, pretending to be unfazed. But you don’t miss the way his breath hitches when you press another kiss, this time dangerously close to the inside of his thigh.

He exhales sharply, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. "Go on," he muses, tilting his head slightly, glowing eyes flicking down at you, and dark with something indulgent. "See what happens, cutie."

You know exactly what will happen. Because Rafayel is all bark until he’s bitten. Until he’s whimpering, breathless, fingers trembling with the effort of keeping control he never really had in the first place.

And when you do press forward, when you start to eat him out, he lets out a sound—soft, bitten off, caught between a laugh and something much filthier.

Rafayel lets out a startled gasp as your lips wrapped around his sensitive cock, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. "H-hey, what do you think you're doing?" as if he didn't challenge you outright.

He tangles his fingers in your hair, not pushing you down, but not pulling you off either, torn between his desire and his stubborn pride. "I never said you could just... just do this, you know," His nose wrinkles in a mixture of annoyance and arousal. "Such a bold little thing, taking what you want without asking..."

But even as he spoke, Rafayel's body betrayed him, his cock twitching and throbbing against your tongue, growing harder by the second. He bites his lip, trying to stifle the moan that threatened to spill out while you swirled your tongue around the sensitive head, lapping up the bead of pre-cum that had already formed at the tip.

"Nngh... y-you're not going to distract me that easily," Rafayel insisted, even as his grip on your hair tightened, his fingers trembling slightly. "I'm not just going to let you... ah! ...just take control like this, without even asking me first!" He tried to sound indignant, all the while rocking his hips to match your movements.

"Y-you're... hah... you're not going to win this way," Rafayel panted, his face flushed and his eyes glazed over with lust. "I won't let you... just... just have your way with me like this..." But even as he spoke, his head fell back against the headrest, his eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure entirely consumed him.

XAVIER

The night stretches long ahead, the road open, the streetlights casting fleeting shadows across Xavier’s sharp profile. His hand rests on the wheel, fingers drumming idly, while the other is perched casually on the gear shift.

Leaning in, you press your lips against the inside of his thigh, soft and fleeting, just enough for him to feel it. Then, his whole body goes rigid.

His foot presses down a little too hard on the gas before he corrects, rolling his shoulders back like it was nothing, like you didn’t just do that.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "Don’t start." His voice is firm, clipped—but there’s something beneath it, something unraveling at the edges.

You don’t listen. You never do. Another kiss, slower this time, your breath warm against denim.

His fingers tighten around the wheel. "I said—" He stops, inhaling sharply through his nose. A slow, controlled breath—like he’s trying to center himself.

But then he does something unexpected. He shifts in his seat, just slightly—just enough for his thigh to press closer against your lips.

Your lips curl. "Thought you said not to start," you murmur, letting the heat of your breath fan against the fabric of his jeans.

Xavier smiles to glance at you—a short, breathy huff coming out of his lips, almost like he hates that you caught him. "I also told myself I wouldn’t let you get to me."

He keeps driving. Still in control. Still composed. But you can feel it—the tension in his shoulders, the way his body is slowly but surely giving in. "...Keep going," he murmurs, almost absently, like he’s already resigned himself to the inevitable.

He would keep himself unnervingly still and eyes on the road while you lap up his girth, but barely seeing it. "When have you gotten good... at this?"

As Xavier would reach his peak, he'd let out a sharp, hissed intake of breath through clenched teeth, his body going rigid for a moment. He'd rasp, your name a little more than a breathless whisper.

Then, with a sudden, violent jerk of his hips, he'd bury himself deep in your throat, his thick, hot seed erupting forth in thick, heavy spurts.

Xavier's eyes would flutter shut, his head falling back against the headrest as he rode out the intense waves of his climax.

A low, guttural moan would rumble in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that seemed to echo through the confines of the car. His fingers would tighten in your hair, holding you in place as he emptied himself into your eager mouth, ensuring you took every last drop of his essence

As the final, weak spurts dribbled out, Xavier would slump back in his seat, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.

A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, and a faint flush colored his usually pallid cheeks. He'd shoot you a heated look, his eyes half-lidded but intense as they raked over your face. "Swallow it."

CALEB

Caleb would react to a sudden blowjob while driving with a mix of intense arousal and possessive desire lurking beneath the surface.

His eyes would flash with a fierce, hungry light as he glanced down at you, grip tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.

"Oh, you're brave, huh?," he'd growl, your name falling from his lips like a dark promise. "You're playing dirty, my love."

Despite his words, he made no move to stop you, and instead of grabbing your hair, his veiny hand finds your nape, holding you in place as you worked over his throbbing cock. "Silly girl, trying to distract me like this..."

Caleb's hips would start to rock, fucking into your hot mouth with a growing sense of urgency. "Fuck, baby, your mouth feels so good," he'd pant, his voice rough and strained with pleasure.

As his climax approached, Caleb's eyes would darken, a fierce, almost manic light burning in their depths. "You're mine, you're... mine." he'd rasp, his voice a dark, dangerous rumble. "Only mine. And I won't let anyone, not even you, take that away from me." He'd tighten his grip on your nape, a touch of pain mingling with the pleasure.

He always had a habit of continuously praising and showering you possessive nothings while reaching for his climax.

With a harsh, animalistic cry, Caleb would reach his peak, his hot seed spurting forth to fill your mouth. "Fuck, yes, take it all!" Even pushing himself deeper to the point you wouldn't be able to breathe anymore.

And after he cums? "I'm not done yet." He pulls over the side of the road, and gets on you. Literally.